Lit Major Shoots Lightning
by Space Viking
Summary: An American exchange student in London, Christen "Chris" Warden, develops dangerous powers after swallowing a bee, and must learn to control her powers as she plunges into the Secret World. An origin story based on the earliest levels of the game. Contains some strong language from the canon NPCs.
1. The Bee

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: The POV in this story is pretty experimental for me, but I figured first-person present tense would enhance the immersive element of the game's world. Hopefully, it works.

* * *

**The Bee**

_Friday, September 13, 12:30AM_

I sit back in my chair, and remove my glasses. I can't type another word. I rub my eyes and look at the clock. It's half past midnight. It's now officially Friday, not that I'll be able to convince my body of this until after I've laid down and gotten some sleep. I save my work and close my laptop. I can finish this essay when I wake up, hopefully.

My roommate, Becky Harmon, still isn't back yet. I hear the TV in the background and realize she must have left it on when she went to meet with her boyfriend. I guess she wasn't kidding about spending the night with him.

I pick at my auburn ponytail and try to parse out how I feel about that. Though I don't think it's right or smart for a girl to be sleeping with a guy before she marries him, I honestly have to say a little jealous—mostly in that she _has_ a boyfriend she can make questionable decisions with. When we arrived in London last week, Becky already had a boyfriend to hang out with: John, a guy from her school in the States, who was studying abroad with her. Aside from that, she also knew half the people in the program already, and became friends with the other half practically by the time we'd all moved in. Me, I had nobody. I was the only one from my tiny little Colorado university to get the scholarship and I, well, I have trouble making friends to start with. I don't want to say I'm shy or anything, but…well, sometimes it's hard to know what to say, and sometimes I wonder if it's worth saying anything—with certain people anyway.

Becky's not one of those people. She's nice, she's outgoing, she's spontaneous, she's pretty…and she's nauseatingly good at everything, except perhaps at doing her homework, the way things are going. Her boyfriend's the same way. Charming, witty, handsome—I wish I could meet a boy like that, only I'm afraid he would drop out of the exchange program from lack of studying and try to take me with him. That's not something I plan on doing. This semester is my one chance to study English literature in England, my one chance, maybe in my entire life, to travel to another country and see the sights without actually spending any of my own money. I'm not about to let that be cut short because my classwork starts slipping.

I pull the white scrunchy out of my hair and toss it on the wardrobe. This isn't getting me anywhere and I need sleep. I force myself to stand up and start changing for bed. While I do I can hear the TV still going in the living room. There was a talk show on while Becky was here, but the program has changed to a news bulletin.

"In world news, the military is maintaining a heavily guarded perimeter around the site of last month's terrorist attack," the voice of a late-night anchorman drones. "The Japanese government has stated that an unidentified radical political group released a biological agent in the Tokyo Subway, less than one kilometer from Orachi Tower. Although the area has been evacuated, there have been eyewitness reports of activity inside the perimeter, including ongoing fighting between Orachi security personnel and armed civilians. Authorities are denying these reports and the military has barred anyone from going inside."

I step into the living room at this point, pick up the remote, and turn off the TV. Another story on the Tokyo Incident, as they're calling it, is not what I need right now. I wish they'd stop reporting on it. More to the point, I wish there'd stop being things for them to report on about it. The bombing was almost three weeks ago, and by rights there shouldn't be anything happening there except cleanup crews removing the wreckage, funerals and memorials for victims, and survivors being released from the hospital and reunited with their families. That's how I remember every other bombing or attack I've seen on the news ending. But this Tokyo Incident somehow isn't ending. No one is going in to remove wreckage or recover bodies. The military is still on the scene, keeping everything locked down, and there are these reports of fighting no one can confirm. I get this cold, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I try to imagine what's happening in Tokyo. Are there survivors in there, starving slowly in quarantine? Did the biological agent not kill its victims, but instead drive them mad? I shudder and try to put it all out of my mind. My brother, Micah, he would be into this sort of thing: government conspiracies, unsolved mysteries, and monsters lurking in the dark. He would probably say something ridiculous like the bomb turned everybody into zombies. He would probably say it with an excited look in his eyes too, as if he were actually looking forward to having a zombie apocalypse…probably because he actually is.

I miss my brother. He's crazy, and a rascal, but I miss him. I'm glad him and Dad live in a small town in the foothills of Colorado, where terrorists don't plot bombings at all. I'm glad they're safe. I wish I felt as safe myself, here in the big city of London. At least the apartments where they're putting up the American exchange students are in a good part of the city.

I open the window in the living room and am reminded that, no matter what part of the city I'm in, I'm still in a city. The scent that rises to my nostrils isn't that of pine trees and grasses, but of car exhaust. I sigh and tell myself the homesickness will pass.

I start back to my bedroom when I hear a droning buzz behind me. I turn to see a fly landing on the windowsill. I glare at it. "I didn't open that for you," I say, storming toward it. "Now shoo!"

I'm about to swing my hand at the fly when I stop myself. It isn't a fly. It's a bee. I don't know if I'm allergic. I don't even know how one goes about finding that sort of thing out, apart from getting stung. All I know is that I've never been stung in my life, and I don't want to start now. Even if I'm not allergic, I hear beestings are very painful—and who knows how quickly a bee can turn on the hand that swats it?

I could go find one of Becky's magazines and use it to swat the bee instead, or chase it back outside, but there's still a chance I could just end up making it mad. While I hesitate, the bee launches into the air and starts flying into the apartment. I recoil, but the bee flies right past me, buzzing around in a characteristically non-linear fashion. Now getting rid of it is going to take forever, and with it being this late, I just don't feel up to it.

"Okay, here's the deal, bee," I say, tracking its wavering flight path with my eyes. "You can stay in here tonight, see if you can find whatever it is you're looking for. We'll call a truce: I won't try to hurt you, you won't try to hurt me. By tomorrow morning, though, you'd better be gone."

The bee makes no reply except to land on one wall, walk a few inches, and then take off again, flying in weird loops and circles around the room. I leave it to this, turn off the lights, and head to bed. I consider closing the door to my bedroom, but that would cut off the airflow, and the nights are much warmer here than I'm used to. Besides, I can't hear the buzzing anymore. Maybe the bee has already left.

I settle down on my bed and, owing mainly to exhaustion, fall immediately asleep.

* * *

Next Time:

_**The Dream**_


	2. The Dream

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: This section is lifted pretty much directly from the game's opening cinematic. Hopefully in writing it I've managed to preserve the enigmatic feel without making it totally bizarre. My thanks to all the people who recorded videos of this and the other cut scenes, complete with close-captioning of the dialogue, and posted them on YouTube...which was _very_ helpful to this writing.

* * *

**The Dream**

_Friday, September 13, 2:30AM_

I hear a voice in the darkness, skull-splittingly loud, sounding like many voices all speaking as one, like the Borg in Star Trek. But I don't think I'm hearing Star Trek.

"You will see the end of days," the Voices say. "You will see the dawning of a new age."

I become aware of cold. I'm lying on something cold, hard, and lumpy while raindrops fall on my face. I shake myself awake and get slowly to my feet. I'm wearing jeans and my black and white hoody over my favorite blue t-shirt, though the last thing I remember doing is changing into my oversized PJ top. I try to remember how I got here…then I take a look around myself, and realize that's a moot point. _Here_ is a place that can't possibly be real.

I am standing on a rocky beach in the rain, staring toward the shore, but there is no ocean. In its place is a vast void, teaming with crumbling asteroids and broken moons. I take a step back. This has to be a dream!

"To be a monarch, or a beggar," the Voices go on, drilling into my skull. "To lose everything, or to become a god. To stand with us, or against us: the choice is yours. Remember this."

Then, just like that, the Voices stop. The rain falls in silence for a moment and I try to remind myself that this is just a dream, a nightmare, and that any moment now I'm going to wake up and start getting ready for my nine o'clock class.

Then, out of nowhere, a woman in a white appears beside me: white hair, white blouse, white pants, everything. By way of introduction she says, "Be mindful of the Voices."

Before she's even finished, a man in black appears opposite her: black hair, black shirt, black pants, everything, and says, "Listen to the Voices."

"They will whisper in your sleep," the man and the woman say together.

I look back and forth from one to the other, wondering how my subconscious managed to come up with all this. It must have been working serious overtime while I was writing that essay.

"You are with the Chosen, but you must choose for yourself," says the woman.

"You are with the Chosen, but you must make the right choice," the man says at the same time.

"You are cursed with free will," they both say, first the woman, then immediately after her, the man.

At this point, I'm figuring my subconscious outsourced part of this dream to my brother. Micah always has the weirdest dreams.

Perhaps my expression of confusion gets through to them, because the man stops to explain, "We are here to guide you to the light, even if this is merely a dream."

"It's not my place to intervene," the woman interjects. "But then, this is merely a dream."

Now I am seriously weirded out. People in my dream know it's a dream? Hopefully that means it's about to end soon. Surely it's a sign that the light is creeping in through the window and my alarm will go off any minute.

But my alarm doesn't go off. Instead, the dream just gets weirder. The man and the woman both stretch out their hands. Bees flow out of their sleeves, circling around me in a spiraling swarm. As they do, the man and the woman intone: "Make the right choices, and be mindful of the voices."

"For they corrupt," the woman finishes.

"For they speak the truth," says the man.

I am hardly paying attention to either of them, since a swarm of bees is flying circles around me. I feel my feet leave the ground and I find myself suspended in the swarm. _Oh, God, please let this not be a falling dream_, I think to myself. I hate falling dreams. It does not help at all that I am afraid of heights.

But if anything, this dream is worse. The swarm does not dissipate and let me fall, as I fear it will, instead, it circles up, higher and higher. I gasp as the bees fly around my face and then, as if on signal, they all swarm down my throat, hundreds of them, stinging, crawling, buzzing down inside of me. I want to scream, but that only lets more bees in. And then…

I wake up, choking on something. I sit up, coughing. Whatever it was seems to go away after a moment. I look around myself. I'm in my room, on my bed. It's still night outside. I can hear the sirens of a police car in the distance. The clock on my wardrobe reads two-thirty.

I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down. "It was all just a dream," I say, though my throat feels a little raw. Probably it's just dry. I decide to get a drink of water from the kitchen and I reach for my bathrobe, draped over the chair at foot of my bed. As I do, I feel a slight tingle in my hand, but I don't really pay attention to it. I grab for my bathrobe, and as soon as my hand touches it, the bathrobe bursts into flames. Blue fire hisses all over it, burning hot and bright, but not consuming it. I stare in shock for a moment. This has to be a dream still. It has to be! Then I realize that, even in a dream, I don't want to let some fantastic blue fire to ruin my one and only bathrobe. I reach toward it slowly, like I'm trying to calm a skittish animal instead of pat out a flame. A part of me knows this is stupid, that I can't put a fire out like that, and that this fire's way too big anyway. Another part of me insists that if I can ignite a fantastical blue fire by touching my bathrobe, I had better be able to put it out by touching it again—and at two-thirty in the morning, this is the sort of logic that prevails. My hand passes into the fire, feeling no heat, and I touch the bathrobe.

Immediately, the flames are gone. I stare at my hand and wonder if they were ever there in the first place. My bathrobe is fine. I touch it once more, experimentally. Nothing happens. I get up slowly and put it on. Whether or not this is still a dream, I'm thirsty, and there's water in the kitchen.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Headaches and Bee Wings**_


	3. Headaches and Bee Wings

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

* * *

**Headaches and Bee Wings**

_Friday, September 13, 7:30AM_

I wake up at seven-thirty for my class. It feels entirely too early, but I fight the familiar weight of drowsiness and go about my morning routine. Throughout it all, there's a tickling at the back of my throat I just can't seem to get rid of. When I go to rinse out my mouth after brushing my teeth, I swirl the water back as far as I can to see if I can alleviate the sensation. It seems to work. I spit the water out and get an unpleasant surprise.

There's a pair of gossamer wings glistening in my sink. With a start, I realize they are bee wings, and they were the source of the tickling in my throat. I remember waking up during the night coughing and choking after that bizarre dream, and now I know what I was choking on. I almost gag. "Not cool, bee," I mutter. "Our truce did not include you making a kamikaze run on my throat in the middle of the night." There is nothing I can do about it now. Clearly the bee is already swallowed and gone, apparently without stinging me on its way down. Score one for my digestive system, I guess.

I try to put the bee out of my mind, but I keep thinking about it during my nine o'clock class. The weird dream from last night keeps popping into my head, too, along with the moment when I thought I'd lit my bathrobe on fire. Was that real? It can't have been, since this morning my bathrobe was perfectly fine. But it felt so real. How could it be real? Also, how did I wind up swallowing a bee without any ill effects?

It's because of questions like this that I have a hard time paying attention in class and wind up scrawling a note in my planner about an assignment due Monday that I have no idea what it's about. Hopefully, the teacher posted instructions online. Distraction also plagues my attempt to finish my essay before my three o'clock class. I also get a headache.

That's how Becky finds me, when she comes back to the apartment. A couple of friends of hers, girls I don't know, follow her, talking and laughing. I sit on the couch, scowling and rubbing my temples, staring fixedly at my laptop and the stubborn essay it displays. Thankfully, Becky sees me and gets the hint. She bids the girls goodbye and heads to her room. When she comes back, she sits down on the couch next to me and asks, "When's it due?"

"Today at three," I reply curtly. I don't mean to snap, but it's almost noon and I still haven't finished my first draft.

But Becky just smiles. "Good," she says. "Then you won't be working on it all weekend, and you can come have fun with us. There's swing dancing down at the Ritzy tonight. You want to come?"

I glance at her and my face softens. I really do want to be more sociable, and it is the weekend. "Alright," I say. "But I have to finish this first."

She smiles and hops up. "Of course," she says, then heads off to the kitchen to make herself lunch. It looks like some sort of autumn salad, from the peeks I catch when I'm looking up from my laptop. I hope she makes a little extra for me. The only thing I know how to fix myself for lunch is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—and those get old fast.

She does, and that's the first thing to go right that day. It's followed by me finishing my essay, in spite of my growing headache. I don't get it done in time to edit it, but I'm hopeful that my first draft is good enough. I'm a pretty good writer, so for most essays it is. I turn the essay in, and manage to endure class, in spite of my headache graduating to skull-splitting levels.

Unfortunately, it's the headache that sets the tone for the rest of my day. Becky comes into my room to see if I'm ready, only to find me sprawled across my bed with a wet washcloth on my forehead. I see her enter and explain, "Headache," before she can ask what's wrong. She looks disappointed, but asks if there's anything I need. "A new skull?" I say. "I've already taken Tylenol and so far it isn't helping."

Becky giggles, then her face sobers. "Sorry you won't be joining us at the Ritzy. Maybe some other time?"

"Maybe," I say. "I'd like that."

Becky starts to leave, then turns and says, "Oh, there is one thing you might try. Go for a jog."

"Go for a jog?" I repeat dubiously.

"Yeah," she says. "I did it any time I'd start to get a headache in high school. It helps relieve tension and stress."

"I can't imagine you ever being stressed," I say.

Becky laughs. "Well, I promise you I was. I was a cheerleader, so I tried not to show it, but boy was I stressed some times, especially when we were practicing a new routine."

It figures. Becky would be a cheerleader. Me, I'm a nerd, an outdoorsy nerd, curtsey of growing up within walking distance of the majestic Rocky Mountains, but a nerd nonetheless.

"Well, I can't jog now," I tell her, regarding her advice. "I feel like I can barely move. So unless you know of a way to dislodge an invisible corkscrew from your roommate's cranium, you probably better leave me to die in peace."

"I'm sure you'll feel better after some rest," Becky says. She turns the light off and leaves. I lay there in the dark, trying to convince my body to sleep in spite of the headache, so I can wake up after it's all over. For some reason I keep thinking of bees, and there's a buzzing sensation inside of my head. I keep thinking of the dream I had last night, trying to puzzle it out.

I eventually manage to sleep, but it's fitful. I wake up several times during the night because of the pain. Once I wake up to a loud noise. It sounds like a gale force wind is tearing through my bedroom. The sheets rustle and I see lightning flash around me. It must be my imagination, but the lightning seems to be inside the room with me, crackling through my body. I am too tired to care about this illusion. I only hope the storm passes quickly, and wish that Becky hadn't opened my window before she left. After a few minutes, the lighting stops and the wind goes still again. I pull the sheets back over myself. My headache has vanished, finally, and I am able to sleep.

* * *

Next Time:

**_Wind in the Bedroom_**


	4. Wind in the Bedroom

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: As in all sections, the opinionated perspective of the character does not neccessarily reflect the views of the author and is not meant to be offensive, say, to someone who really likes hot pink... _*shudder*_

* * *

**Wind in the Bedroom**

_Saturday, September 14, 9:55AM_

"What happened to your room?"

I open my eyes slowly and roll over. Becky is standing in the doorway of my room. Daylight is streaming through the windows, but I still feel like staying in bed. "What time is it?" I mutter.

"It's almost ten o'clock," she says, then gestures to the floor again. "What happened here? It looks like a bomb went off."

I push myself up reluctantly so I can see what she's complaining about. As I do so, I'm thinking of some sarcastic remark I can make, asking her why she's complaining about my room, when hers has always been ten times worse, with clothes and magazines scattered all over the floor. But my sarcasm dies when I see the floor. Papers and books, usually kept on their shelves or in semi-neat stacks on my desk, now lie strewn about the floor. They're not alone there. A picture from the wall has been dislodged to join them, and everything that was on top of my wardrobe, by the window, is now on the floor as well, including my alarm clock and small jewelry box. I sit up quickly and remember the storm.

"There was a storm last night," I explain. "You left the window open and it blew all this around."

"No, I didn't," Becky insists.

"You must have," I say.

"Chris, your window is closed. Look," says Becky.

I turn and discover that she's right. I bite my lip. "Maybe I opened it in the night, then closed it later without remembering," I say. "I definitely remember the storm tearing into my room, so it must have been open at some point."

"There was no storm last night," Becky said. "I mean, there could have been gusts I suppose…"

"That's what it must have been," I decide. "Sorry if I got upset at you."

Becky waves it off. "It's fine. Anyway, I got you something." She picks her way through the wreckage of my room and places a shopping bag on the bed beside me, smiling proudly. "I'm sure you'll like it. It's a jogging outfit, so next time you can get rid of those stress-induced headaches in style."

I open the bag and inspect the contents. I paste a smile on my face and thank her, trying not to let my initial thought of _Good Lord, how quickly can I get rid of this junk_ show until she's out of the room. For starters, the outfit is pink, hot pink. I may be a girl, but that does not mean I am obligated to tolerate a color so horribly obnoxious, much less wear it. Then, she bought me short-shorts. I hate shorts, and short shorts in particular, since wearing either means shaving my legs, a chore I choose to avoid whenever possible. I did have a brief affair with them in high school, at a time when I thought fitting in and looking cute were not only possible for me but also worth some significant sacrifices (such as shaving my legs on a regular basis). That affair ended in sunburned legs, an experience I have solemnly vowed never to repeat. Jeans offer much better protection, and a loose fit breathes just fine and doesn't inhibit mobility. Finally, there's the sports-bra, which I think is the type to be worn as outerwear. Even my bathing suit does not show that much skin (I like my tankini, though I don't wear it much due to never really learning how to swim; but when I do wear it, it keeps me modest and keeps my midsection pasty instead of letting it turn fire-engine red). Fortunately for Becky, she is holed up in her room talking on the phone with her boyfriend when I happen to glance at the tag on the sports-bra and notice the cup size: A. It takes some effort to resist throwing the sports-bra across the room. I have to remind myself that Becky was probably trying to be nice by getting me this outfit. She just utterly failed to consider that I was the one who was supposed to be wearing it, not her—except evidently in the matter of sizing, where I can only hope she made an honest mistake. _I may not be as well-endowed as you_, Becky, my inner monologue rages, _but don't you think I'm at least a B?_ Apparently not.

I decide to leave the outfit in the bag and place the bag on the floor in a corner of the room where it will, with any luck, be completely forgotten. I spend much of the rest of the day cleaning up my room. It appears there is very little that the wind didn't manage to blow around the room last night. I'm surprised I managed to sleep after that.

But even more surprising is some of the damage I find. My digital alarm clock is split open and its face is fractured around a smooth divot that looks like it was melted into the plastic. My purse's zipper is fused shut. I wind up retrieving its contents by cutting its side open with my pocketknife, which was thankfully in my backpack last night. Then there are black scorch marks here and there on the walls and even the ceiling. I remember the lightning I saw last night. Could that have been real? The damage is undeniable, but how could lightning have wound up in my room without hurting me or me realizing it. Was the apartment complex struck by lightning? But didn't Becky say there wasn't a storm last night? I can't ask her to confirm this at the moment, since she has gone out to meet a friend for lunch while I was cleaning my room.

I feel a headache coming on and decide to give Becky's suggestion a try. After all, it can't hurt and Tylenol didn't seem to be working for me last night. I disdain to even look at the outfit she got me while I make this decision. A t-shirt, jeans, and a sturdy pair of shoes are all I really need to go jogging in the park.

Unfortunately, the jog doesn't seem to be working. The headache is only growing worse. For some reason, it seems to be accompanied by an excess of energy. I feel like I could jog fifty miles and then tackle an important essay—supposing I weren't too distracted by the feeling of an ice-pick stabbing me between the eyes. I decide to run faster, harder, seeking out some hills along the streets. It isn't long before the heat and the exercise wear me out, and as my excess energy disappears, so too does my headache. I can't explain why it should work like that. I only know that it does. I am content to return to my apartment, weary, but no longer in pain. That night I get a lot done on my assignment for Monday, which turns out to be an essay on supernatural themes in A Midsummer Night's Dream.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Fire and Lightning**_


	5. Fire and Lightning

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: I know it's a little cliche, but here's the obligatory first-person mirror scene, for the sake of physical description. Hopefully it will be less cliche if I have Chris immediately _kill it with lightning!_

* * *

**Fire and Lightning**

_Sunday, September 15, 11:00AM_

I found a local church to go to, and I attend their eleven o'clock service. It's nice, different than what I'm used to, but nice. The return of my headache somewhat detracts from the service, though. I go home and immediately head out on another hard run. This time, though, it doesn't seem to have the same effect. I get sweaty and tired, but I still have the headache. I also still feel like I'm holding something back, like my body is trying to sneeze but I won't let it. It isn't a sneeze, though. It's some sort of energy pulsing through my entire body, still waiting for release even after my muscles are trembling from exertion. I've never felt anything like this before. I walk back to the apartment, legs and head aching, and wonder if there are any other remedies I can try.

Becky is home when I get to the apartment. It seems she's finally trying to tackle her homework assignments, which I suspect are all due tomorrow. She looks up as I come in and she makes a face. "Ugg, what did you do to get so sweaty?"

"I went jogging," I explain.

"Jogging?" she repeats. "You should have worn the outfit I got you. It would have been more comfortable."

I had meant to be gentle about this, but I'm tired, confused, and in pain. I snap at her. "It's none of your business what I choose to wear jogging. You're my roommate, not my mother!"

Becky stares at me. "What?!" she manages at last. "Of course I'm not your mother. Look, I'm sorry if it came off that way, but I was just hoping the present I got you was something you would use and enjoy."

"Then maybe you should have tried to find out what I would use and enjoy first," I counter.

"You don't like the jogging outfit? What's wrong with it?"

"It's hot pink, not my style, and the size is all wrong!"

"Well, I'm sorry, you didn't tell me-"

"And you never asked!" I glare at her. "What made you think I would even _want_ a jogging outfit in the first place?"

"I was just trying to be nice to you," Becky says.

"Well maybe you need practice, then," I say. I know it's a low blow, that she really is a nice person and that her poor choice of a gift to me was probably more incompetence and misunderstanding than malice, but I'm not exactly making rational decisions right now.

After that, there is silence. We stare at each other, shocked and angry. Then she says, "Fine! If you don't like it, I'll take it back tomorrow."

"Good!" I say, and storm into my room to retrieve it. I slam the door behind me.

I immediately regret my actions. I have to admit my regret starts with wishing I'd been more gentle with the door. The sound of it slamming sends waves of pain through my head. But once it starts, the regret spreads. I pick up the bag with the outfit Becky bought me and remind myself that my roommate didn't have to get me anything at all. Sure, she chose poorly when she did get me something, but there is no doubt that she was still trying to be a friend to me, and between my homework, my headaches, and my general introverted nature, I'm not exactly the easiest person to be friends with right now. I close my eyes and let my anger go. It seems to flow out of me like water, taking some of my energy with it. I still haven't changed my mind about Becky's gift—there really is no way I'm wearing this thing-, but I do realize my words were too harsh, and that I owe her an apology.

That's when I open my eyes and look down to discover that the clothes I'm holding have burst into flames. Red-orange tongues of flame are devouring the bag before my eyes and turning the outfit inside a shimmering black.

"Fire!" I scream and drop the bag. The bag crumbles to ash, but the clothes are still burning. If I don't do something, the fire will spread. I rush out of the room, dashing for the fire extinguisher in the kitchen. I grab it off the wall and run back to my room. The fire hasn't spread, yet, but the carpet around the clothes is beginning to smoke a little. I pull the pin and hose the flames down, smothering them in a white cloud. After they've gone out, I toe over the remains of the outfit, spraying it some more just to be safe.

"My God, what have you done?" Becky says. I turn to see her staring at me from the doorway.

I look from her to the extinguished clothes and back again. "They were on fire...," I begin.

"Why did you have to light them on fire, Chris?" she asks. "I mean, I know you didn't like them, but you could have burned down the building!"

"What? No! It wasn't me," I tell her.

Becky crosses her arms. "And I suppose you expect me to believe they just caught on fire all by themselves?"

"They did!" I insist. "I know how it sounds, but really-"

"Hey, I know I'm not as smart as you are, Chris, but honestly how dumb do you think I am?!" She balls her fists. I realize this is probably the first time I've seen her truly angry.

I try to calm her down. "This isn't what it looks like," I say, raising my hand. "Please, I don't know how it happened but I just-"

My voice trails off as Becky gasps. I realize she is no longer staring at me in anger, but in horror. She takes a step back and points at me.

"What?"

She makes no response but to back away further.

"Becky, come on, even if I did light the clothes on fire—which I didn't—it's not like I'm going to incinerate you on the spot."

"Look at yourself," Becky whispers, pointing to the mirror in the hall. "You're changing. You're not…not human!"

"What are you talking about?!" I storm over to the floor length mirror in the hall. "I'm perfectly hu-" The words die in my throat. The reflection staring back at me is not the red-haired, hazel-eyed, thin, short, and ordinary Christen Warden I'm used to seeing. The woman in the reflection looks like me, but with hair that's standing up, dancing with so many electrical discharges that it seems colored blue-white. The eyes have changed to the same color, as if they're also dancing with electricity. I take a step back, shocked at my appearance. I hold a hand out in front of me as if to shield myself from the revelation. And that's when I first see myself hurl a lightning bolt. The bolt of electricity shatters the mirror and blackens a patch of the wall behind it. Becky screams and runs out, closing the door behind her.

I find myself alone. My headache is gone, as is the feeling of excess energy. Looking at one of the shards of the mirror on the floor, I can see that my appearance as returned to normal as well. But the return of my normal appearance belies my inner turmoil. I have just seen myself wield powers that should be physically impossible. Nothing will ever be normal for me again.

* * *

Next Time:

**_Overflow of Power_**


	6. Overflow of Power

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: This incorporates the second scene from the game's introductory movie. It seemed to me like the scene needed a more gradual build-up than it received in the game, hence chapters 3-5. The sneeze analogy may also sound lame, but I just couldn't bring myself to use the TV Trope term for what's going on here: Power Incontinence-that just sounds even worse...

* * *

**Overflow of Power**

_Monday, September 16, 9:00AM_

I don't go to class today. I don't even leave the apartment. How could I go out? I have no idea what kind of power I manifested yesterday or how to control it. All I know is that it's potentially lethal—_I'm_ potentially lethal. Becky does not return. She must be staying with her boyfriend. I'm glad she's out of harm's way.

I remember the blue fire on my bathrobe, the storm-force winds that tore apart my room late at night, with lightning bolts that must have destroyed my alarm clock and damaged by purse. I remember the outfit that caught fire in my hands…all of this must have been caused by me. I don't know how it's possible, but it's the only logical explanation. Somehow I am manifesting a strange and terrible power that I cannot seem to control.

I wake up this morning with a headache. I remember having headaches associated with all the other manifestations. There, the headaches would keep getting worse and worse until my power lashed out randomly at something, and then the headache would be gone. Somehow this power is building up inside me on a daily basis and the headaches are somehow related to it. Even now, I can feel the power increasing inside of me. It's like having the feeling that you need to sneeze just before you do so. Only this feeling encompasses my entire being, not just my nose—and this "sneeze" could take the form of fire, lightning, or something even worse.

Sometimes, if I hold a sneeze in long enough, the urge to sneeze goes away on its own. I wonder if I can do that now, with my power. I decide I have to try. Maybe if I can prevent the power from manifesting, it will stop building up and go away. In the meantime, however, I realize my headache is going to get worse and worse. I decide to try it anyway. I put on a comfy hoody and prepare to ride out the worst headache of my life.

I soon find my expectations were dead on. This does feel like the worst headache of my life. For a while, I try just lying in bed, trying not to move, hear loud noises, or even think about any combination of the two. But that just leaves me lying around with nothing to do but think about how much it feels like a broadsword is being driven through my skull. I decide to get up and try to do something to distract myself. After a few steps I find that moving in general and jogging in particular are out of the question. Every step leaves me dizzy. The only way I make it out of my bedroom is by holding onto the walls and furniture to support myself. By the time I reach the livingroom, the pain is unbearable. I slide down on the wall, hugging my knees in a fetal position. I can feel the power surging within me, growing with each wave of pain that rips through my head. I concentrate on holding it in, on fighting it down. The pain is excruciating, but I manage to do it. The power ebbs a little, and for a moment, I relax.

It's a mistake. I should have known, the moment you relax and let your guard down with a sneeze is the moment it gets you. This power is no different. I relax, and it surges up, over the mental barriers I've put in place to hold it back. It spills out into the world. I can feel it building. I open my eyes and see the air around me charging with electricity. A wind rises out of nowhere, howling through the room, throwing everything into the air, and I know I have failed.

Power breaks lose like a flash flood overwhelming a dam. It claws its way out of me. It spews like geysers from my mouth and eyes as I scream, helpless. Fire, wind, and lightning hurtle around me, tossing around furniture like child's toys. The pain is indescribable.

It seems to go on for hours, but it cannot have been more than a minute until I find myself back on the floor, breathing hard and exhausted. My eyes open. The room is dim with smoke. Bits of plaster are floating down from the holes in the ceiling above. All the furniture has been moved around and bears scorch marks. The TV looks to have taken at least two lightning strikes. I'm lucky whoever maintains this apartment didn't keep the sprinklers and fire alarm in working order, or I would be soaking now on top of everything else.

My headache is gone, but the cost this time was enormous. I groan and lie down on the floor. Why is this happening to me? How can I make it stop?

* * *

Next:

_**Unleashing the Storm**_


	7. Unleashing the Storm

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: Another intermediary chapter that I thought necessary for transition's sake. For the record, Storm is the property of Marvel Comics, which (surprise) I don't own either.

* * *

**Unleashing the Storm**

_Tuesday, September 17, 10:30AM_

Whatever the source of this rising power is in me, it apparently isn't satisfied with driving off my roommate and ruining my apartment. The manifestation in the living room on Monday left me exhausted for a while, but the power has returned now, and with it, another headache. I sit down at a breakfast of cold cereal and consider my options. Trying to hold the power in yesterday was disastrous and painful. Clearly that's not an option. But I can feel the power building inside of me already. I need to give it some outlet. I decide to try to let it out consciously.

After breakfast, I go to the bathroom, the innermost room of the apartment. Supposedly, it's the safest place in a storm, so I figure it's the safest place to let a storm loose—the place where it's least likely to affect the rest of the complex.

I shut myself in and take a deep breath. I look in the mirror. I can see the fear in my eyes, but also, determination. I'm not going to let this power run rampant with me. I'm not going to let it control me. Whatever it takes, I will learn to control it.

With this in mind, I close my eyes. I can feel the power inside of me, pushing against the barriers of my will. I consciously, deliberately lower those barriers and I feel it surge through me and into the world. I feel my feet leave the ground as wind whirls around me. I hear the crackling of lightning.

I open my eyes and see myself in the mirror. I gasp. I am floating, arms outstretched, hair blown back, surrounded by blue fire with little bolts of lightning arcing out from my fingertips at random. I look like Storm, I think. The thought is ridiculous, but it is probably the first pleasant thought I've had since I discovered my power. If I have to live with a supernatural power welling up inside of me, it is somehow a small comfort to know I look like a cool superheroine while wielding it.

Then, the moment ends. The lightning becomes more violent. One bolt strikes the mirror, shattering it. The next blows out the lights. For a moment the only illumination is the blue fire and the lightning bolts, blasting into the tile. Then, the power leaves me. I sink to the floor in darkness. The headache is gone and does not return that day.

I have learned how to summon the power on my own, but I know this isn't enough. I must learn to control it, and I'm fresh out of bathrooms to wreck.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Juggling Fire**_


	8. Juggling Fire

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: The part about juggling fireballs is definitely shown in game, but the rest of this is made up.

* * *

**Juggling Fire**

_Wednesday, September 18, 10:15AM_

Today, I try to learn to control my power. I start in the already-ruined living room, trying to lower my barriers just a little, releasing a small amount of my power. A couple of lightning bolts arc into the TV, shattering its LCD screen and leaving smoking holes.

I grimace. I did not mean to do that. I suppose I'll have to concentrate next time on what I _do_ want my power to do. Isn't that the way it's supposed to work in fantasy? You concentrate on what you want your magic to do and it does it. I don't know if this power works that way, but it's my best guess.

I close my eyes again. I can still feel the power there. I let a little more of it loose, but this time, I try to picture the blue fire. That seems to be the least harmful manifestation I've had. I open my eyes and see sparks of blue flame shimmering in the air around me. They fade out quickly, but they were there. I'm excited and I try again. This time, I picture something more specific, blue fire formed into a ball, cupped in the palm of my hand. I hear a whoosh as the fire ignites and I see it there, shining in the palm of my right hand. I don't feel any heat. I move my hand experimentally, and the fireball follows it, as if it's a literal ball. I toss it up in the air and catch it. I juggle it experimentally from hand to hand. Finally, I let it fall to the floor.

That seems to be a mistake, the blue flame doesn't go out, but instead starts to spread. I remember how I put out my bathrobe, and I reach down and touch the floor. The flames vanish around my hand, but they continue to spread elsewhere. I have to rush around quickly, touching them all, in order to stop the flames. They don't appear to have done any damage, but the air is now thick with smoke and I decide to stop practicing for now. The headache I had woken up with this morning is gone now, though it feels like it is simply waiting out of sight for now.

I spend the rest of the morning trying to put the apartment back into some semblance of order. With much of it, there's no point. The couch, though scarred, is still usuable, but the TV has been damaged beyond repair, as have both of the apartment's mirrors and several electronics. Mercifully, both my computer and my cell phone are not among them.

That afternoon, my headache returns, so I practice some more with the blue fireball. I figure out I can extinguish it just by closing my hand around it. I also discover, quite by accident, that I can actually pass the fireball through my body, passing it from hand to hand by allowing it to go up one arm, across my shoulders, and down the other arm. It tingles a little, but that's all. It seems like a cool trick. I bet it would look awesome, if I had a mirror to see it in. I practice until the headache is gone, and then keep practicing until I begin to feel tired. I figure that ought to keep this power at bay for a while. It seems to work.

Now that I've figured out how to safely manage my power level, my mind turns to other questions. How did I get this power? The only odd event around the time of the first manifestation was that weird dream, and the fact that I swallowed a bee that night. I doesn't even make comic-book sense for swallowing a normal bee to give me the power to shoot lightning and juggle balls of blue fire, but it's the only explanation I can come up with. Somehow, something happened to me that night that gave me the ability to manifest this power. Why do I have this power? Why me? For that I have no answer. I know that God does everything for a good purpose, but I have no idea what good could come of me suddenly being able to wreck my apartment with fits of supernatural power.

But the quest for an answer to that question is overshadowed by another question: now that I can control my power, to an extent, what will I do? I know if it was Micah who had this power, he'd give the classic superhero answer: use the power for good. But I don't know if I want to be a superhero. I certainly don't feel like a superhero. And how does one use the ability to randomly shoot lightning and juggle balls of blue fire for good? No, what I want to do is find a way to keep this power secret and move on with my life. I'm a junior in college, studying abroad in London. I want to graduate, see the world, and write books about my experiences. Destructive supernatural powers don't fit in to that vision of my life. Worse, they don't fit in to the world. I've never even heard of anything like this happening in real life. I never imagined it could happen at all—and everyone else will be equally shocked by it. Becky was. It's a wonder she hasn't contacted the police or the government or someone to have them take me away to be experimented on or locked in an insulated cell. Probably the only reason she hasn't is because no one would believe her when she told them what happened.

But keeping the power secret will be hard. To start with, there's a substantial amount of property damage to be explained. Even if I do manage to explain that, there's the matter of the power buildup, which seems to be daily. If I don't use the power safely every day, probably several times a day, it will build up to the point of unleashing itself destructively, like it has before. How can I keep my practice sessions secret? How long will they have to go on? I have no answers to any of these questions, and that really troubles me. If I can't keep my power a secret, or find some way to get rid of it, there's no way I can return to my normal life.

* * *

Next Time:

**_Monster_**


	9. Monster

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

* * *

**Monster**

_Thursday, September 19, 10:00AM_

This morning, as I juggle fireballs to try to exhaust my power again, I'm interrupted by a timid knock on the door. I close my fist, extinguishing the fireball in my hand, and pick my way through the half-reassembled apartment to the door. I peek through the peephole and see Becky standing there. Her boyfriend is behind her. I swallow casting a nervous glance around the room. Though I've tried to clean up, the apartment is still a wreck, and there's no hiding some of the damage. But I can see Becky fishing her keys out of her purse. It's too late to try to cover up the damage. I open the door and greet them nervously, opening the door partway and filling the gap with my body. "Hi, Becky. Hi, John."

John steps forward. "Hi, Chris," he says. "Becky and I came to apologize for her part in that fight you had. She said some pretty wild things-"

While he is talking, Becky pushes forward and shoves the door open. "Oh my God," she whispers. I know that she has seen the damage inside.

John sees it too, because he stops talking and glares at me. "What did you do to the apartment?"

"It was an accident," I say.

"How do you accidentally put several holes in a TV set? Do you have any idea how much those cost?" he demands, stepping toward me. I step back, retreating into the living room.

"Be careful, John," Becky warns. "She can shoot lightning."

John looks at Becky. "We've been through this before. She does not shoot lightning. It's impossible."

"But it's true!" Becky insists.

John ignores her, turning back to me. "Do you have an explanation for all this destruction, or should I just call the police?"

"It was an accident, I swear," I say. I turn to Becky, who at least is closer to understanding, since she knows I have powers. "Becky, I'm really, really sorry I scared you and wrecked the apartment. I don't know where this power came from or why, but I lost control of it. I'm only barely able to control it now, but I'm learning."

"Power? What are you talking about?" demands John.

"Becky's right," I tell him briefly. "I can shoot lightning."

John shakes his head. "No! Are you both crazy? It's impossible."

"I've caused enough accidental damage to this apartment and the things in it to prove otherwise," I say, before turning back to Becky. "Please understand I'm very sorry about all this. Could you just come back, in a few days. I should have the power under control by then. Then it won't be dangerous for you to be here."

John steps between me and Becky, his fists ready. "Are you threatening her?"

I shake my head, taking another step back. "No! I'm just—I just haven't used all my power up this morning. It could get out of control."

John bares his teeth. "Enough of this nonsense!" he says, storming toward me. I step back and hold up a hand defensively, and he stops in his tracks, staring in horror.

Without meaning to, I have created a ball of blue fire less than a foot from his face. I have no idea what might happen if I let it touch him. Though it's harmless to me and doesn't seem to affect inanimate objects, for all I know the blue fire might be lethal to another human being. I don't want to hurt him. I close my fist and extinguish the fireball. "I'm sorry," I say, but my emotions are still tense, and I have to say that, since I didn't actually hurt him, I'm not very sorry.

But John is already backing away. "Monster," he whispers, then turns and runs out the door.

With my emotions frayed, I can feel my control wearing thin. Already the air around me is crackling with electricity. I look Becky in the eye and say, "You should go now. I'm sorry, but it's not safe."

Becky steps back, but there's something more to her look than fear. There's also sympathy. "You really can't control it, can you?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Not yet," I say. "Maybe not ever. I'll let you know when it's safe to return to the apartment. I'm sorry, Becky."

"I'm sorry, too," she says, backing into the hall. Then she closes the door behind her and I am left alone.

My thin control finally snaps then. I start to cry, and as the tears come the power is unleashed. My sobs are met by the howl of winds, throwing around the furniture, and with my tears come bolts of lightning. I thought I was doing so well, but if a single confrontation like this can cause me to so dangerously lose control again, then my life will never be normal. I am a danger as long as I live. I am a monster.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Visitor**_


	10. Visitor

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: Here's another segment from the video, bookended by my own creations. I tried to quote the unidentified Templar woman from the game as much as possible while still turning it into an actual conversation. In the game, the player character never speaks, even during cutscenes that are heavy with dialogue (turning them into cutscenes heavy with monologue). I tried to make the internet research as accurate as possible, after filtering out any hits that referenced TSW. Micah's use of "the Bees" is a direct reference to a character who appears later in the game, Marianne Chen. According to her wiki entry, she tells the players that the CDC has secret files on people with their abilities, calling them "the Bees."

* * *

**Visitor**

_Thursday, September 19, 2:15PM_

I am writing an email to my dad and my brother, trying to explain everything that's happened to me in the past week. I haven't figured out how I'm going to end the email, but I have a bad feeling that it's going to turn into a suicide note. I can't live like this, trapped by these powers, isolated and alone, unable to let myself feel emotion lest I lose control of the terrible power within me…and as long as I'm alive I'm a danger to myself and others, a walking time bomb of supernatural power, just waiting for a place to go off.

I didn't choose to be a monster, but I am. Monsters have no place in this world. Their very existence is a threat to everyone.

I feel myself tearing up and I quickly shut my laptop and leave my room. I don't want a sudden manifestation of emotionally-driven lightning to fry my hard-drive. I've caused too much damage for one day as it is.

I'm pacing the living-room, waiting for my emotions to settle, when there's a soft knock at the door. I look up and wonder if this is it, if John called the police or the government or someone and they're finally here to take me away: to destroy or lock away the monster I've become. If they are, I'm resigned to go quietly. I pick my way through the debris and open the door.

There's a woman standing there, wearing slacks and a white button-down blouse with a necklace bearing a cross pattée of black enamel edged in crimson. Her brown hair is cut short and her blue eyes shine bright as she smiles. She speaks with a subtle, unidentifiable accent. "Good afternoon," she says, pushing open the door effortlessly. "Are you-" Her words trail off as she notices the state of the apartment. She steps inside, brushing smoothly past me, and surveys the scene. "From the look of things, I'm guessing that question is moot. Bee problem?"

"Bee problem?" I repeat, questioningly. "There aren't any bees in here."

"But that's how it started, isn't it?" she asks. "You swallow a bee, you have a strange dream, and you wake up the next morning able to do…this." Her gesture takes in the damaged living room.

I nod mutely. "How did you-?"

The woman shrugs off the question. "There's a lot of that going around."

"You know about it, about other people this has happened too?"

The woman says nothing, instead kneeling to inspect one of the blast marks on the couch.

I swallow. "Look, you should know you're in danger as long as you're around me," I warn her.

She gives me a sidelong glance. "You're not having a headache, are you?"

"No," I admit.

"Then we should be fine," she says, standing. "Judging from these marks, you've already expended quite a bit of energy today. You've probably burnt yourself out for a good twelve hours at least."

I'm shocked, but thinking about it, she's right. Every time I manifest as much power as I did this morning, it burns me out until the next day. "How do you know all this?" I ask. "Who are you?"

She smiles and shakes her head. "Who I am isn't as important as who I know," she says. "I represent an organization headquartered in London, a very large organization with branches across the globe and connections in every government-although we see ourselves as a…silent partner."

I give her a questioning look and she smiles. "We pull strings," she explains. "Big strings: prime ministers, presidents, kings." She steps toward me, her face suddenly becoming serious. "Dark days are coming. The world is in turmoil and we're recruiting: soldiers, agents, adventurers…crusaders. We offer good terms: a fresh start, a network unlike any other, unlimited resources, a fantastic medical plan, and a way to harness and use your incredible powers."

I look down at my hands. "I don't know if they can be harnessed."

"It's been done before," she assures me. "It's one of the things our organization specializes in, though, you'll have to temporarily move to our headquarters in order to participate in the program." I look up and she meets my gaze. There's sympathy in her eyes, but also a firm determination. It's the same kind of look my dad got when he was warning me of the risks of moving to London in the first place.

"It may be a big transition," she says, "but look at it this way: this is a unique opportunity. You have been chosen. You have been granted powers beyond what most can imagine. So you can either become an outcast in a world that will never understand or accept what you've become, or you can join others like you. You can take a stand with them against a rising darkness and embark on a journey into the unknown, into the hidden places, into the secret world."

I don't know what to say to that. It's so unexpected: to know that there are others like me, that there's an organization out there that can help, and most of all that these powers can be harnessed and used for good.

"You don't have to make a decision now," the woman says. "The choice, as we're so fond of saying, is entirely yours. But know this: your emerging powers will attract plenty of attention, and not everyone is as…accommodating as we are." She gives me a warning look. "On your own, you'll be easy prey. You might not last the week."

"And if I do decide to accept your offer, to join your organization in exchange for control over these powers?" I ask.

She hands me an envelope. "If you do, then this will get you where you need to go. There are instructions inside. Use it or don't use it, it's your prerogative. Either way, you won't see me again." She starts out the door and smiles at me as she passes me. "I trust you'll make the right decision."

"Thank you," I say. I'm not sure what else to say to someone who, in the course of one brief conversation, has turned my entire life around.

She just nods in acknowledgement, then stops and turns in the hall. "By the way, our organization is called the Templars. You may have heard of us. We've been around a while." Then she raises her hand in a parting wave and says, "Good day." With that, she walks down the hall without a backward glance.

I close the door behind her and examine the envelope. It's unmarked and sealed with a stylized sticker. It bears a white cross pattée on a red field, edged in back. I gingerly lift the sticker. Inside is a business card bearing the same white cross on a red background, with the name "Richard Sonnac" printed near the bottom. I flip the card over and find an address "Temple Hall, 100 Temple Court, London, United Kingdom." The address is missing a postal code, I note. But I go to my laptop and see if I can find it on Google maps. As I do, I notice that the address has been circled and a note has been written in underneath. The handwriting is very fine and it takes me a moment to decipher it. It reads, "Find taxi driver wearing Templar ring and ask to take to Ealdwic. We'll cover fare. Please pack your things and bring them when you come. Training to begin immediately. Temporary housing provided." It was signed "R. Sonnac."

I slide the card back into the envelope and set it down on my desk. I turn back to my laptop. Google isn't showing any results for the address I'd typed in. The closest it can come up with is a "Middle Temple Hall" at Middle Temple Lane, which appears to be a hostel in Westminster. I try searching for "Ealdwic." This time, it returns an absolute blank. "We could not understand the location ealdwic. Make sure all street and city names are spelled correctly." I check the card again, but the writing at that point is quite clear.

I try Googling "Templars." The only relevant results seem to be about the Knights Templar, assuming one can safely discount the pages about the faction of the same name from the Assassin's Creed video games and characters from a Dan Brown novel. From my Medieval History classes I remembered that the Knights Templar was one of several military orders founded during the Crusades. Their members were among the most feared warriors in the fighting there, and even after the Holy Land was lost to the Muslims again, they retained power through the financial infrastructure they'd set up across Europe to support their war effort, creating an early form of international banking. Eventually, this was what led to their downfall: in the early 1300's King Phillip IV of France owed the Templars money, and rather than paying up he arrested the Templars, tortured false confessions of heresy out of them, and burned them at the stake. After that, Templars were branded heretics by the Pope and the order fell from the pages of history.

But the woman who came to my door today claimed to be with the Templars. The cross she was wearing and the cross on the envelope and card are classic Templar symbols. So what is an organization that went extinct over 700 years ago doing knocking on my door today? Maybe they weren't destroyed in the 1300's, maybe they just went underground. But then covering up their existence and their influence—which, if the woman was to be believed, was pervasive and powerful—would involve a huge conspiracy.

Conspiracy theories. I sigh. I always hated them, never put any stock in them, and could never figure out anyone would make them up or believe them in the first place. But now it seems there's at least some truth to the conspiracy theories I dismissed. Clearly, the Templars do still exist, and are powerful and knowledgeable—knowledgeable enough to figure out what's going on with my powers and, presumably, get them under control. I know I'm no good with conspiracy theories, but I do know someone who is. I pick up my phone and hit speed dial 2.

The call seems to take forever to go through. At last, though, the voice of a teenage boy comes through from the other end. "Hello?"

"Hi, Micah, it's Chris," I say.

"Um, yeah, sis," he says. "You do know that I have caller ID on this thing, right? All the cell phones have it these days."

I roll my eyes and cut to the chase. "I have some important questions for you," I say.

"For me, really?"

"I'm serious, Micah," I say.

"Okay, shoot," he says. "I'm between classes right now, so I'll do my best to answer them."

"Do you know anything about the Templars?"

"You mean the Knights Templar?" he asks. "Is this for history or something?"

"It's for an essay I'm writing…on the supernatural," I lie. "I don't know as much about it as you do, so I thought I'd ask."

"Well, as far as I know the Knights Templar were a bunch of cool Crusader dudes who all got roasted back in the Thirteenth Century when the Church turned on 'em."

I groan. So much is wrong with that sentence, but I settle for one thing. "The Fourteenth Century," I correct.

"Whatever," he says.

"Have you ever heard that they might not have all died out then?"

"Well, yeah. The name keeps popping up all over history." He pauses. "But that would involve some sort of conspiracy theory. I didn't think you were into that sort of thing."

"For the sake of this assignment, let's assume I am. What do the conspiracy theories say about the Templars today?"

"Well, not much, I mean they are conspiracy theories, after all, the mystery is an important element you have to appreciate…"

"Micah. I need a straight answer. The simpler the better."

"Right, well, basically the Templars are one of three groups whose name keeps showing up in connection with unexplained events, you know, like the Tokyo Incident."

"And the other two?" I ask.

"Illuminati and the Dragon," he says.

"I've never heard of the Dragon," I say.

"There's not a lot of information about them," Micah explains. "The Illuminati are a lot more popular to pin things on, since allegedly their out to establish the New World Order through covert manipulation."

"And the Templars? Do you have any idea what they're like?"

"Well, it's hard to say, really, but according to most of the stories they're protectors of good and hunters of evil, you know. Really, it's like they're still the Knights Templar from the Crusades, only they're fighting monsters instead of Muslims. A lot less morally complicated that way, I guess."

I nod, before realizing the gesture is useless over the phone. "Okay," I say. "I've got another question, kind of unrelated: have you ever heard of someone getting superpowers from swallowing a bee?"

"From what?"

"Swallowing a bee," I repeat.

He laughs. "No, that sounds silly. I mean, there's been a lot of mention of the Bees on some of the forums lately, but nothing about swallowing them."

"What are they saying about bees?" I asked.

"It's…uh…it's difficult to make out, really," he says. "They never really say what they are or how they're important, but they're definitely showing up more and more, whatever they are…which is weird because aren't honeybees, like, facing extinction or something?"

"Something like that," I say. I bite my lower lip. I have to make a decision, and I have as much information now as I'm going to get. I look at the email I was drafting on my laptop and remember how it was going to end. Now, I have an alternative: join the mysterious Templars in their struggle against evil by harnessing my powers for good. When I put it that way, it's not a hard decision. I delete the draft of the email.

"Uh, Chris, you still there?" Micah asks, from the other end.

"Oh, sorry, I was just thinking of something," I say. "Could you tell Dad something for me?"

"Can't you call him yourself?"

"I might not get a chance to," I say. I close my eyes, knowing this may be the last contact I have with my family for a while. "Tell him I love him, tell him I'm staying as safe as I can, and tell him I'll get in touch with him again as soon as I can."

"Oh, okay," he says. "Are you alright, 'cause it sounds like you're getting all weepy on me?"

I touch my eyes self-consciously. I can feel tears starting to build up, but I can hold them back for now. "I'm fine," I tell him. "I'm better than fine, actually. Listen, if this all works out, I'll tell you about it later. For now, I just want you to know I love you."

"Um…okay," Micah says. "Uh, is it just me or did it get way too emotional over there?"

I laugh. "I'll talk to you later, Micah," I promise. "Goodbye." I shut the phone and hope I can make good on that promise.

For now, I need to start packing. Tomorrow, I'm going to see the Templars.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Ealdwic**_


	11. Ealdwic

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: This is the first chapter to contain some actual gameplay...granted it was just walking around, but when I wrote this I was still really excited to write my way out of that introductory cutscene.

* * *

**Ealdwic**

_Friday, September 20, 2:26PM_

It turns out to be a lot easier to get to Ealdwic than I thought. The real challenge was packing. It takes some time to sort through the wreckage of my room and find everything that's salvageable. It takes even more time to decide what I like enough or will need enough to lug around with me. I pack my clothes in a duffle bag, along with some toiletries. Then I pack my backpack with other essentials: my glasses case, clip-on shades, and lens cleaning cloth; a lighter, a flashlight, a sturdy waterbottle, a small first aid kit (basically just bandages), and a compass. I also bring a small leather-bound Bible, my laptop, a flashdrive, a couple of notebooks, and three mechanical pencils. It might strike some people as odd to include some of the latter in a list of essentials, but as a writer I consider them important. In fact, I seriously consider leaving the first aid kit out in order to better accommodate the charger for my laptop, before realizing I can just jam the kit into one of the side pockets.

I'm left with what I can put in my pockets and carry on my person. I make sure to wear a pair of blue jeans with big pockets, along with my striped hoody. I stuff my pockets with the wallet from my ruined purse, lip balm, a pocket knife, an assortment of scrunchies and hairbands, and a rattail comb. I make sure the letter the woman gave me is in my pocket as well. The last thing I add is perhaps the most important to me: the silver cross necklace left to me by my mother. I put it on, letting the cross slide under my shirt.

With all the packing, and having to practice magic until I'm burned out afterwards, I'm not ready to leave until the early afternoon. I give the apartment one last look before I leave. I don't know when or if I'll ever be able to return here. I hope they can get it fixed up for Becky. Maybe they'll find a new roommate for her too.

When I leave the apartment, I find an old cab waiting by the curb. The gray-haired driver looks up from his paper as I approach and flips his light on. As he does, I see a cross-shaped ring on his weathered finger. This must be the Templar driver. I throw my backpack and my duffle in the back before climbing in.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asks.

"Can you take me to Ealdwic?" I ask.

The driver smiles beneath his mustache. "Of course, miss. We'll be there directly."

We drive for the better part of half an hour. I've never had a chance to familiarize myself with London's streets, so I quickly become lost. At last, though, the cab pulls up to a police barricade in one of the older parts of the city.

"Sorry, miss, this is as far as I'm allowed to go," he says, pointing to the barricade. "Ealdwic's inside, though, and they'll let you through, since you're expected. They'll get you sorted out. God bless you on your journey, miss."

I smile and shake his hand. "Thank you, sir." I pull out my duffle and backpack and walk toward the barricade. The cab pulls away as soon as I close the door.

The barricade is guarded by two policemen wearing bulletproof vests and carrying submachine guns. I walk carefully toward them. One of them holds out a hand, signaling me to stop. "Sorry! Can't let you through without authorization."

I remember the letter the woman gave me. I dig it out of my pocket and hold it out for him to inspect.

The policeman give me a puzzled look. "I don't know what that's supposed to be, but it's not-"

Before he can finish his sentence, a woman in a black trenchcoat comes up behind me. She flashes a badge at the two policemen. "Alright, lads, D.I. Shelly. The girl's with me," she says, taking me by the arm. The policemen let us past without objection. Once we're past the barricade, Shelley releases my arm and says, "Do us both a favor and don't go flashin' that letter around out here. The boys on the cordon haven't been briefed. As far as they're concerned, this is all just 'heightened awareness' after the terrorist attack in Tokyo."

She gives me a level look, then, stopping beside me. "But I don't deal with the bureaucracy, I deal with the truth: about the secret London, about the Templars."

"You know then," I said. "Am I in the right place?"

Shelley huffs. "If you mean, are you in Ealdwic, yes. As for that being the right place…" She shakes her head and looks me over. "I would say I hope you know what you're getting yourself into but you have no idea. Even I only get as involved as I have to, for the sake of us little people." She shakes her head again and starts to walk away.

I'm worried. "Are you saying they're dangerous?" I ask.

Shelley chuckles mirthlessly and turns back to me. "You've seen it on the news? The Tokyo Incident?"

I nod.

"That's what happens when your new crowd lets things get out of hand," she says. She steps closer to me and says warningly, "Not here, not on my watch: that's the deal. That's always been the deal."

"And do they keep it?" I ask.

"Well enough." Shelley shrugs and waves me on. "You'll be safe inside Ealdwic. Go see one of the prophets prophesying up the road, by the tube station. They'll fill you in on the kind of crazy you've got ahead of you. Best be prepared." With that, she turns and walks back toward the barricade, calling out after her, "My sincerest condolences!"

I watch her leave and try to tell myself she's just a pessimist. Still, what she said about the Tokyo Incident bothers me. Something had always seemed odd there. What horrible thing had happened there, and were the Templars somehow to blame for it. Would joining them put the responsibility for future incidents on my shoulders? If that were the case, I'd be better off trying to make it on my own. At least that way the limit of my destructive potential was one room at a time of an apartment.

I walk down the cobbled streets, deeper into Ealdwic and—I can only hope—in the general direction of the subway station. I wonder why I couldn't have just taken the subway here in the first place, and bypassed the barricade. I wonder how a place like this can even have subway service, when it doesn't show up on any maps.

"Would you care to take our personality test?" a woman says, interrupting my thoughts. "It'll analyze your true being!" I look over to see a smiling woman in a business suit standing beside a cloth-covered stall emblazoned with symbols of what looks like a sunrise seen through a church window. A title beneath one of the symbols reads: "Church of the Morninglight."

I can see other men and women in suits standing around the stall, accosting various passer-by and trying to get them to either take some of their brochures or do the personality test. I've seen it before, with other groups, and the whole thing screams _cult_ to me. I paste a smile on and politely decline before continuing on my way. I may be ready to embrace conspiracy theories, but I'm not about to be dumb enough to drink the Koolaid, as it were.

Thankfully, I'm walking in the right direction. In a little while, I find myself at a two story brick building with large open entryways. Faded signs on the building's front announce it to be "Ealdwic Station: Underground." But a more recent, larger sign has been hung over this, which says in hand-painted letters, "Ealdwych Market." Looking inside, I'm inclined to believe the large sign. Inside the stairs to the subway all seem closed and boarded up. Some sort of bazaar has been set up inside, made up of ramshackle stalls selling an eclectic mix of wares. I don't see any "prophets" in evidence, but I hear something from the other side of the building. I walk around the station to find a small square beside it. A raggedly dressed man stands on a crate at one end of the square, holding up a hand-puppet of a king, while a crowd stands around, listening to him speak.

Surely this isn't it, I think to myself. But there are no other people speaking around. I shrug. Well, prophets in the Bible did sometimes do strange things…and there's nothing to say this guy is really a prophet. Still, maybe he'll say something about the Tokyo Incident. I step closer, joining the crowd so I can hear what he's saying.

For the moment, he's speaking in the high voice of the puppet who waves his little arms dramatically. "Too late to start recycling!" he says merrily. "Hehe! Too late to go to raves to save the gorillas! To cash out those Anansi shares! There's a storm comin', _mondo_ storm. Paint your glass houses shut!"

The man pauses, and points to the puppet. "You don't have to take his word for it," he says in his own voice, which is surprisingly much deeper. "This is a warning from the sun. It says it's old, tired, and scared of death. It says you've lived as young gods for too long: spoilt children who only need to wish for something, and it'll come true! Well, those days are gone now and won't be here again! Hahaha! Sorry!" He grins under his beard.

Then he seems to look straight at me, though it's hard to tell with the sunglasses he wears. He pauses for a second and lowers the puppet to head level. "I'll show you how it all goes down, through the medium of unreliable narration."

Now I feel like he's really talking to me, as I'm probably the only English literature major in the crowd: the only one who has studied and considered unreliable narration to any great extent.

"A vision of the future," he announces. "This could be your lucky day!" He pauses to smile at his puppet. "Tomorrow and all the ones after…not so much."

He lowers the puppet completely then, and turns to the crowd. I still somehow feel like his words are aimed at me, though. I no longer have any doubt that this was the man Shelley was calling a prophet.

"It's a hot wet day," he begins. "Ever notice how the apocalypse always comes on a wet day?"

I hear thunder, though I know it isn't real. I shake my head to try and clear it.

"There's the smell of warm air, and stale piss."

I want to hold my nose at the sudden smell that assaults my nose.

"The atmosphere is electric. I mean, actually electric, sparking off the tracks, lifting and snapping your hair."

I'm starting to sweat now, and a tingling sensation washes over me. I think I can feel my hair starting to stand on end and I try to brush it down. I'm beginning to wonder whether or not I used enough power this morning when I realize that my ponytail is laying flat, just where it's supposed to be, even though I feel a static charge that should be making it fan out like a corona. Whatever it is I'm feeling, it isn't affecting my actual hair.

"A voice over the speakers that you don't hear, you itch."

I am already scratching my neck. I make myself stop, but it takes effort.

"The black signal sounds…"

My vision swims. I find it difficult to keep my balance. I let my duffle bag fall and stagger backward a pace. Then my feet seem to miss the pavement. I fall sideways. Darkness closes in over me.

"Lights out!" the prophet says. It's the last thing I hear.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Tokyo Incident**_


	12. Tokyo Incident

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: Finally, the first gameplay action! Chris' observations on Sarah's shotgun are a mix of my own unique interpretation on how firearms work for people like Chris, and my own observations that some of the things done in the game with guns are rather impossible (though very cool). There's also a pun on the apparent ineffectiveness of Orachi Security personnel, who, in the game, seem to be the redshirts of the universe.

* * *

**Tokyo Incident**

_?_

When I come to, something is definitely not right. I can't move, or breathe, or make a sound. Oddly, in spite of my lack of ability to do anything, I'm not suffocating, and I do hear a moan so near it must have come from me. My body must no longer be under my control, but it is continuing to function. It is very disconcerting to be a passenger inside my own head, though. I try to figure out what's happening by tuning myself in to my senses. The result is even stranger still.

I immediately conclude that I am no longer in the square outside the Ealdwych Markets. I remember having asphalt under my feet when I passed out, but what I feel under my hands now is cold, smooth tile. I was outside when I passed out, too, but now I'm inside, judging by the stillness and stuffiness of the air. There's another thing about the air: it stinks, reeks of the rotting sludge that sits at the bottom dumpsters.

Then, I hear the voices. There's a young woman's voice first. "It's all shut down," she says, "Kaidan-cho, everything, from the park to Orachi Tower." A name connects itself with that voice: Rose White, a Templar. I don't know where that information comes from though. I've never heard that voice before, and I certainly can't name any Templar agents.

"SDF quarantine," another woman's voice says. "Good news for Tokyo, bad news for us!" There is another name that connects with this voice: Mei Ling, a Dragon agent.

"I thought the Dragon thrived on chaos," says the voice of a young man, sarcastically. The name that connects itself with him is Alex McCall, Illuminati.

"Someone once told me the Illuminati had all the answers," Mei Ling shoots back.

My eyes open, as if of their own accord. My body begins to stir. It's then that I see something even stranger: this isn't my body. The hands stirring in front of me aren't mine. The skin is too dark, and the blue and white jacket isn't something I even own. It's then that I realize why I'm not in control, why I know things I couldn't know, and why I feel like a passenger in a body that's acting on its own: because I'm no longer in my body: I'm in the body of someone else, spectating.

I don't know how I wound up in someone else's head, or how I can get back. For now, all I can do is observe. I decide to do my best at that. There are three young people, Rose, Alex, and Mei Ling standing nearby, arguing. At least two of them are armed: Rose with a shotgun and Mei Ling with a katana. I see that I am-or more, whoever I'm spectating is—inside a public building of some sort, late at night. Japanese writing is everywhere, so that's a pretty good clue I'm not in London anymore. I think at first it's a mall, but then I realize the arrows on the signs are more like the ones I've seen in subway stations.

That's when it hits me. I'm in a Japanese subway, and Rose and Mei Ling just mentioned that this was Tokyo, near Orachi Tower, inside a military quarantine…that means I'm at ground zero of the Tokyo Incident! And since they were talking as if the quarantine was a new thing, that also means I've traveled back in time almost a month, to the day and the site of one of the most mysterious and frightening terrorist attacks in recent history. I would gasp if I had control of this body.

Rose soon confirms my fears. "They're saying a bomb," she says. "It's never just a bomb."

Mei Ling nods. "It's something worse, something that brought the Filth with it." She points her katana at something on the floor, though she's careful not to let it touch the blade. It looks like a rope of tar as thick as my arm (when I had an arm), but its black surface glistens like oil. Also, if I'm not mistaken, it's moving, slowly pulsing and undulating beneath the slick, black surface. I don't need the assistance of the mind this body belongs to in order to realize that this thing is the Filth, or to realize that it is very appropriately named.

Rose glares at the strand of Filth, then turns back to the others. "So, we fight. That's what us Templars do."

"I enjoy a good fight," says Alex. "It's just these trousers are bloody velvet." He says, gesturing to his crisp black pants. It looks like someone picked a bad day to dress up.

By this time, the person I'm spectating has stood up. Mei Ling notices. "Sarah! Thank Gaia," she says. Sarah, I suppose is the name of the person I'm currently sharing a head with. Sarah's mind offers up the detail that she's with the Illuminati. This day just keeps getting better and better.

"Are you okay?" Rose asks.

Sarah nods.

"How are you feeling?" asks Mei Ling.

"A little weird, but I'll be fine," Sarah says, stepping carefully over the Filth. "It didn't touch me," she adds.

"That's a relief," says Alex. "For a moment, I thought we were gonna have to kill you."

"Oh, you would, wouldn't you?" says Rose.

"Oh, come on, like you wouldn't, like any of us wouldn't?" Alex looks around the group. "I mean, she'd be infected with it." Rose continues to glare at him. "Okay, I'll admit, I would do it for completely selfish reasons, but Mei Ling here would consider it saving her from a fate worse than death…and Rose, well, you might just do it for sport."

"I would not!" Rose insists. The way she's hefting that shotgun makes me uncomfortable. I have no idea what would happen to me if Sarah were to die or be injured right now.

"Oh, go on, admit it," Sarah says, chuckling. "I'll be the first to admit I'd have shot any of you if you got infected."

"See, I rest my case," says Alex.

"If Zuberi was here, he'd tell us this is the worst time to argue," Mei Ling says.

"Well he's not," says Rose. She points to a stairway beyond a heavy metal shutter. "He's down there somewhere. Sarah, get your gun."

Sarah picks up a shotgun off of the floor and cocks it with practiced ease. I've fired a shotgun before, with my father, and I find it very odd that her shotgun doesn't eject a shell when cocked. Maybe it's empty, but Sarah doesn't seem to think so, judging by the confidence with which she holds it.

Just then, there's movement behind the shutter. A Japanese woman trips running down the stairs and lands in front of it. She pushes herself to her feet and immediately begins shaking the gate and crying out in Japanese. I can't understand what she's saying, but she is plainly terrified.

"Open the gate!" Rose says.

Mei Ling is already at a control panel beside the door, carefully avoiding the tendril of filth that snakes up the wall at this point, joining other tendrils to form a large mass. She's mashing buttons desperately, but nothing is happening. "I'm trying," she says. "It's inside the electronics somehow. The Filth-"

Before she can finish her sentence, a man appears from the stairs behind the Japanese woman. His skin is covered with the same oily blackness as the Filth, and two tentacles of Filth writhe from the top of his head, giving him the appearance of horns. His eyes glow yellow, and his whole posture is feral. He is no longer human. Sarah's mind tells me he is Filth-infected. My conversations with Micah tell me he's a really messed up version of a zombie. He growls and rushes at the woman from behind, moving with inhuman speed. His fingers turn to black claws and he swipes at the woman, bringing her down. Then he leaps on top of her, tearing into her chest with his claws. Her screams cut off abruptly.

"No!" says Mei Ling.

"Fuck me," Alex whispers.

"Oh…my…God," says Rose.

Sarah, I sense, is too shocked to say anything. As for me, I would be retching right now if I had a stomach of my own.

His victim dead, the man-thing leaps to its feet and rushes out of sight. A moment later, I hear a thumping coming from a pair of large ventilation shafts off to one side. The covers of them have already been torn off. A moment later, the Filth-infected man emerges from the shaft, jumping to the floor and rushing at Mei Ling.

"Watch out!" says Alex.

But Sarah has already seen it. Before it can reach Mei Ling, she levels her shotgun and fires. The shot hits the monster in the chest, knocking it back. There is no blood, though, only black ooze. It starts to rise again, but Sarah fires again, reducing its head to a black splatter on the wall. The entire thing dissolves into an oily puddle at that point.

"Nice shooting," says Rose.

Before Sarah can reply, there's a feral scream from somewhere inside the ventilation shafts. There's more thumping, too—a lot more thumping. In just a moment, the first of a new wave of Filth-infected zombies emerge.

"How many have they got in there?" Alex asks. He spreads his arms and summons a fireball for each hand. They take down the first two zombies, reducing them to smoldering puddles of black goo. More are coming, though.

"It's gone viral so fast!" says Mei Ling. "If this gets out into Tokyo…"

"It doesn't," says Rose. She lets off a quick blast from her shotgun, killing one of the zombies and knocking it back into the shaft…something which would no doubt have been more effective if it hadn't dissolved into a puddle of goo the other zombies could step through. Rose frowns, but she keeps firing. "We stop it here," she says. "Whatever it takes!"

Sarah nods and starts pumping buckshot into the ventilation shafts with Rose, creating a deadly bottleneck for the zombies.

Alex's occasional fireballs help as well. "Shouldn't we consult with the Council of Venice first?"

No one responds, because at that point a couple of the zombies manage to break through the choke point and rush at the group. Mei Ling intercepts them. Somehow, she's managed to light her katana on fire. She dodges the Filth-infected claws of the zombies and cuts through both of them with a single slice of her blade. They melt into smoldering puddles of ooze.

Then, as quickly as it began, it's over. The last of the zombies melts away, and the four agents (plus me) are left alone again. Mei Ling lowers her sword and it immediately stops burning. She moves over to the control panel, which she's managed to get open. "I think I found the problem," she says, pointing to a couple small, pulsating tendrils of Filth that have wormed their way inside the circuitry behind the controls. "Alex, if you would?"

Alex hurls a fireball into the circuitry. The tendrils are reduced to a smoking black liquid which dribbles harmlessly out of the control panel. The circuitry is also affected, being reduced to a smoking, sparking mass of snarled wires, but that doesn't seem to faze Mei Ling. I hear a click from the gate, and Mei Ling bends over and pulls open the now-unlocked gate.

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here," Alex says.

I recognize the quote, of course: Dante's _Inferno_. Mei Ling recognizes it too. She glares at his back as they pass through the gate. "Thanks for the encouragement, Alex."

"I was only trying to be realistic," he says, smirking.

Rose ignores both of them. "Let's do this," she says, brandishing her shotgun. "Take it like all the other occult disasters, right?"

"We really have to stop meeting like this," says Alex. Sarah laughs. She starts down the stairs and the others follow.

Just as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, I hear screaming below—not feral Filth-infected-zombie screams, but instead the kind of screams I might make if I saw a Filth-infected zombie in real life (though, given everything I've seen now through Sarah's eyes, my first reaction might be to shoot it, and then scream at my leisure). A moment later, a cluster of Japanese civilians come running up the stairs, fleeing for their lives. Behind them, a pack of Filth-infected zombies charge. They immediately stop chasing the civilians and go after us.

The fighting is close quarters. Mei Ling's katana cleaves zombies left and right. Sarah and Rose use their shotguns to keep the monsters at bay. Alex stumbles back from the fray, seeking a space for his slower fireball attacks.

"Don't let it get on you!" Rose shouts. "Don't even breathe in!"

Sarah comes to Alex's rescue by blasting a zombie that was about to grab him with a black tentacle-arm. He returns the favor by incinerating a pair of zombies that were about to take Sarah from behind. Those turned out to be the last of the zombies.

"It's reacting to us," says Rose. "Like it knows we're coming."

"This stuff can't think," says Alex, wiping sweat from his face. "It's a cancer. Cancer doesn't know you're coming, it just is."

"Regardless, we need a new plan," says Sarah.

"I'll think of one," says Alex.

We head down to the next landing, where another gate bars the escalators, the only way leading further down, to the platform. Mei Ling overrides the lock. After a moment of fiddling with the controls, the lock clicks. She turns to Alex. "So, what's the new plan?"

"Right," Alex says. "New plan: fight chaos with chaos. Keep the bastards at a distance, then take them out."

Rose rolls her eyes. "That's your plan?"

Alex shrugs. "Well, it's _a_ plan."

Rose shakes her head and pulls the gate open. "You've got point, Sarah," she says. "Make every shot count."

Sarah nods and cocks her shotgun. I notice again that it doesn't eject a shell. Come to think of it, it hasn't ejected any shells at all, nor has it ever been reloaded—and she's definitely fired more than eight shots. Maybe this means the entire experience is really just a dream—a terrible nightmare, more like—and I'll just wake up in my own body. But aside from the absence of ammunition, everything seems so real.

Sarah walks down the halted escalator. There's a group of civilians standing on the platform, huddling in fear. As she approaches, Filth-infected zombies scramble up onto the platform from the tracks. They howl with rage and the civilians flee. Sarah rushes toward the zombies and angles her shotgun at the ground. When she pulls the trigger, a wave of fire sweeps along the ground, scorching the legs of the zombies and slowing them down.

"Nice one!" Alex says, hurling fireballs at the halted zombies. Sarah and Rose follow up with volleys from their shotguns. The immobilized zombies fall one by one.

For a moment, everything seems to be going well. Then, a zombie in the rear raises its hand. Darkness gathers around its hand, as if it's summoning a fireball made of black flames. It hurls the shadow-ball at Alex, and he ducks. Soon, all the zombies are hurling shadow-balls.

"Maybe we should close in now," says Alex, dodging another shadow-ball. It clips the edge of his trenchcoat, tearing through the fabric.

Mei Ling rushes into the fray, engaging the zombies with her sword, forcing many of them to stop throwing shadow-balls. Sarah and Rose close in with their shotguns as well, eliminating the remaining zombies.

As the last zombie falls, the agents regroup on the platform. "We're gonna need to use some heavier powers," Mei Ling says. "Don't hold back, right?"

Alex clears his throat. "I was pacing myself."

Mei Ling ignores him and points across the tracks, deeper into the subway station. "Listen, Sarah, you have to find Zubari. We'll hold them here, make a stand."

Sarah nods and heads toward the tracks, while the other three agents head back up the platform, toward the sounds of more zombie growls. As they go, I overhear Mei Ling say, "I could murder for a strawberry smoothie."

Sarah steps over blackened tendrils of Filth and hops down onto the tracks. I notice there are also tendrils of Filth overhead, clinging to the ceiling. In some places, where two tendrils overlap, a mass of wriggling black tentacles has formed, reaching down toward the floor. Fortunately, none of them are long enough to touch Sarah—yet anyway. Sarah picks her way across the tracks, toward a gate that separates the line on this side from the line on the far side of the platform, where I see a train, partially derailed. Before she reaches the gate, though, a massive lumbering thing appears on the other side. Its skin is oily black and its eyes glow yellow, like the zombies; but unlike them, it stands nearly ten feet tall and is built like the Hulk. It slams the ground with its fists, splitting apart the tracks. Sarah is knocked aside and it comes at her. She fires her shotgun at the ground again, and the wave of fire brings the lumbering thing almost to a complete stop. She steps back, then, climbing back up onto the platform, before peppering the thing with buckshot. If it has any effect, the creature doesn't show it. Finally, she cocks her shotgun, holds it outstretched in one hand, pointing toward the lumbering thing, and fires. A fireball shoots out of the shotgun, blasting a hole in the lumbering zombie's chest. It collapses and, like its smaller cousins, immediately melts into goo.

Sarah steps around it and continues on across the tracks to the gate. I keep wondering how she's making her shotgun do stuff like that shot that brought down the lumbering thing. I know firing a shotgun one-handed like she just did is a very bad idea, since the recoil will throw it out of one's hand. The flames she's shooting from her shotgun are also impossible…I suppose I shouldn't expect too much logic. After all, this is just a dream of some sort, where I'm stuck inside someone else's head, living out what my brother would have imagined happened in Tokyo.

Sarah is oblivious to my doubts, as she is to my presence entirely. She reaches the derailed train, finds a door open on this side, and climbs in. As she does, a door at the far end of the car is blasted inward by a shadow-ball. A man in body armor and uniform is tossed against the opposite wall of the car and collapses. Sarah recognizes him as a member of Orachi security, and is somehow not surprised to find him defeated. A moment later, a man with gray dreadlocks and red-tinted glasses clambers into the car after the security man. He sees Sarah and smiles. "Ah. The cavalry has arrived."

"Zubari," Sarah says.

He nods and gestures to the downed security guard. "Even where the Filth corrupts, Gaia's power endures. Take it into yourself. Breathe it out. Will this broken body mended."

Sarah holds her hand over the security guard. The air shimmers blue around her hand, with a pattern like the cells of a honeycomb. The guard's eyes snap open and he pushes himself to his feet. "Thank you," he says.

Zubari smiles. "Good! But even Gaia will be tested by what is to come."

Just then, Alex, Rose, and Mei Ling rush into the car behind Sarah. I notice they are all winded, and here and there their clothes are torn or scorched. "Making a stand…wasn't working out," said Mei Ling.

"Yeah, about that, this ain't lookin' too much better, to be honest," says Alex, pointing out the window. There are Filth-infected zombies and lumbering things all over the platform beside the train. Tentacles of Filth reach out from the floor and ceiling at points, wriggling as if seeking something to grasp.

"Now is not the time for argument!" says Zubari.

"Told you he would say that," says Rose.

Zubari ignores the comment and leads the way out of the train and onto the platform. "We must reach the next platform!" he says.

The agents and the security guard follow. The fighting is intense. Zubari hurls bolts of a magic I can't identify. Alex hurls fireballs. Sarah and Rose blast enemies to bits with their shotguns. Mei Ling dashes about the platform with her katana, cutting down everything in sight. If anyone gets hit, Sarah quickly rushes to their side and holds her hand over them, healing them. The zombies have no one to heal them at all and the tentacles are dissolved by even a glancing hit from the shotguns.

In the end, all of the zombies are down. It's difficult to cross the platform without stepping on the puddles of goo that are all that remain of the Filth-infected. As the agents are making their way to the stairs at the far end of the platform, the security gate there clicks and retracts into the ceiling of its own accord.

"The gate's opening!" says Mei Ling.

"I think that's bad news," says Rose. Beyond the gate, zombies shriek wildly. Soon, a hoard of them, accompanied by several lumbering hulks, come rushing down the stairs onto the platform. "Yup, definitely bad news!"

The agents and Zubari attack, cutting down the first wave, but more zombies rush down after them. "They're not stopping!" Mei Ling says.

"And they will not stop," says Zubari. "This is all to hold us back."

"Top marks for effort," says Alex, dodging a blast of shadow and hurling a fireball.

The zombies begin to scatter, working their way around us as the fighting dissolves into chaos. I begin to worry again about what will happen if Sarah dies while I'm inside her. I remind myself that this is all just a dream…probably.

"Someone has to push through," Zubari says, pointing to the stairs, which are now vacated. "This confusion may be all the time we have."

"Someone?" Mei Ling repeats.

Rose taps Sarah on the shoulder. "Go! Go!"

Sarah dashes forward, dodging the swiping claws of zombies, and the bounding fists of the lumbering things. A shadow-ball hits her in the shoulder, and I can feel the pain. Sarah doesn't even stop. She holds her hand over her shoulder, healing it as she takes the stairs up two at a time. The zombies turn to follow her, rushing after her as she reaches the landing. But at the top of the stairs, the mortar groans. Dust falls to the floor.

"Look out! It's all coming down!" Mei Ling shouts. Then, the ceiling collapses. Slabs of cement crush anything that was on the stairs, as Sarah throws herself clear.

When she picks herself up again, she's alone (well, with the exception of me in her head). Nothing can be heard through the pile of rubble of what battle may be happening on the other side. She continues on, down another set of stairs toward the next platform. Tendrils of Filth are everywhere, on the ground, on the ceiling, on the walls. Tentacles of the stuff writhe, seeking something to grab onto, but Sarah stays clear of them. The next platform is deserted. She reaches it and looks to her right. The platform ends in broken concrete and there's a train waiting there, deserted. Beyond that, there's…nothing.

It's like the dream I had the night I swallowed a bee, with a beach on the edge of a void. This is a subway platform on the edge of a void. Nothing beyond the train and the edge of the platform exists. There's just a vast emptiness with tumbling asteroids and burning planets. It's impossible, but it's there. Sarah's mind doesn't know what to connect it with. She hasn't seen anything like it. She steps toward it, walking right up to the edge of the cement. She looks out on the emptiness, terrified and in awe. Then, something happens. A pain pierces her head. Her vision clouds. She grasps her aching head and loses her balance, falling sideways onto the cement. I feel her pain, her disorientation, and then, I am gone.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Temple Hall**_


	13. Temple Hall

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: There's an odd moment here. I noticed when I was playing through that in the game Temple Hall's entry stairs were positively crawling with cats. I know of no in-game explanation for this. Fortunately, since I'm writing first-person and Chris doesn't know either, I can get away with ignorance. Also, for the record, the references to Dan Brown are original. I've never read his books and have nothing against them: I am merely quoting dialogue! The same goes for Sonnac's remarks about the Illuminati, America, and Britain.

* * *

**Temple Hall**

_Friday, September 20, 11:09PM_

When I come to, it takes me a moment to realize that I'm conscious again, back in my own body. I'm slumped up against a brick storefront across from a subway station with a sign over it that reads "Ealdwych Market." It takes me a moment to recognize the place.

"You look like you've just seen the end of the cosmos, mate," says the voice of a young woman. I look over to see a dark-skinned young woman kneeling beside me. She's wearing a green jacket and dog tags over contemporary street clothes. No one else seems to be in the square right now, and she's looking right at me. She stands and offers me a hand up.

I accept and she pulls me to my feet. I look around for a moment, trying to get my bearings. It's dark now, and the streets are nearly deserted. There's no sign of the strange prophet or the crowd he attracted. I rub my forehead. "How long was I out?"

"Heh, had one too many, eh?" the young woman smirks. "I know the feelin'. But see we're on the edge of Armageddon here, and it's time to play your part." She offers me her hand. Uncertain what else to do, I shake it. "Zamira Vata," she says. "Me and you, we're blood now, yeah? Templars for the win and all that!"

I nod slowly, remembering. "Yes, Templars…I was going to see the Templars." I look around. I can feel my backpack on my back, but my duffle bag is nowhere to be seen. "Where's my duffle? It has all my things in it?"

Zamira eyes me askance. "Your bag? Mate, this is London. You leave something alone long enough and, if it's got any value at all, you don't see it again." She pauses. "You even initiated?"

I shake my head. "I was just invited to come to Temple Hall yesterday," I say.

Zamira takes a step back and shakes her head. "Never mind, then. Looks like you've got some training to do before your ready for your first kill." She puts her hands on her hips. "You'll wanna do what your letter says: go speak with Sonnac at the Templar's gaff." She jabs a thumb down the road.

I peak over her shoulder. "Is it far?"

Zamira shakes her head. "It's not far. Ya can't miss it."

I hesitate, looking around once more for my duffle bag, then looking down the road.

Zamira rolls her eyes. "Honest, it's unmissable! Go on then. No use stickin' around here."

I nod and start down the street in the direction she indicated. I pass a coffee shop and a record store, both surprisingly active for this time of night. I check my watch. It's just past eleven. I pass by parked cars and Elizabethan storefronts. After a few minutes, the street I'm following ends at a large cross-street. On one side is a set of apartments with scaffolding set up beside it. A policeman stands by the corner, and as I pass, he stifles a yawn.

I turn to him. "Excuse me, sir, do you know where I can find Temple Hall?"

He points down the street to the right. "Just this way, ma'am, ya can't miss it," he says. Somehow, hearing that for the second time is less than reassuring.

Nevertheless, I thank him and head off down the street in the indicated direction. After a minute, I'm rewarded as the road comes around a shallow bend and I see a grand arch, beneath which another police barricade has been set up. Only there are other people guarding this barricade, besides the police. These men where stylized uniforms of red, white, and black. I can see the Templar cross emblazoned on their uniforms. I must be getting close.

I approach the barricade. The police and the Templar guards are talking quietly with one another, but one of the Templars notices me approach. He points to me. "You there? Your name Christen Warden?"

I nod.

"You're expected," he says, jabbing a thumb past the barricade, toward a large building partly obscured by the arch. "Best not to keep ol' Sonnac waiting."

"Of course," I say. I hurry past the barricade and find myself in a large open square dominated by a cascading fountain. Red banners emblazoned with white crosses hang from the archways all around the square. Before me, beyond the fountain, is a huge, well-lit building topped by an ornate dome, that glistens in the light of the full moon.

I cross the square to the building, which I can only assume is Temple Hall. It certainly is impressive enough to be. There are more guards here, but they don't challenge me. There are also cats lounging about on the outside steps for some reason, but I pass by them. I've already kept Sonnac waiting long enough. If I delay much longer, he might decide not to help me…and then what would I do?

I pass through another set of guarded doors and enter the interior of the hall. I find myself in a stone hall that runs the perimeter of the base of the enormous dome. The area is lit with blazing braziers and Templar guards seem to stand in every corner, despite the lateness of the hour. I hear voices to my right and turn to see an ornately furnished office with thick red carpeting. Stepping closer, I see a golden cross patteé outlined on the carpet. A large mahogany desk stands across the room from me, and behind it sits a dark-skinned man with a black goatee wearing a black suit and a red tie. He's writing something with a fountain pen when I enter.

He looks up and sees me. "Ah, come in, come in!" he says, putting away whatever he was working on. He rises and comes around the desk. "I'm very pleased you can follow directions on the back of a card. It's the basis for us getting along famously." He gestures to his surroundings. "Of course, I'm told we're hard to miss. With an establishment like this, we're practically in the yellow pages under crusaders." He smiles. "Christen Warden, I presume?"

I nod. "I prefer Chris, though."

"Chris it is, then," he says. He shakes my hand enthusiastically. "Richard Sonnac," he says, introducing himself.

"A pleasure," I say, smiling for what feels like the first time in a week.

He nods and begins pacing, hands clasped behind his back. "So, you heeded our call to arms? You have questions: I can furnish you with answers…some answers."

I look around myself, trying to think which question to ask first. I start with the easiest, and perhaps, lamest. "So…the Templars?" I ask.

Sonnac chuckles. "Yes, that's usually the first question," he says. "To begin with, you have not strayed into some atrocious Dan Brown airport paperback. We are not the Knights Templar. That particular appellation went out in the…1300s, along with page-boy haircuts and burnings-at-the-stake. No, we run a twenty-first century-" He cuts off, as a massive Renaissance painting of St. Michael the Archangel hanging on the wall catches his eye. Not very 21st Century, that. He shrugs. "Well, let's say a _forward-facing_ organization, but one with its strength in ancient bonds of tradition, in loyalty, in blood, and—to be perfectly frank—in a sizable private army."

"My brother's into conspiracy theories and such," I say. "He says you're rumored to hunt monsters."

"A rather basic way of putting it, but close to the mark," says Sonnac. "Our firm guidance is needed to save the world from itself. We have kept the matters of squabbling secret societies and loathsome dimensions discreet." He pauses and his face clouds. "Until the shadows began to peel back across the globe, until these darkest of days came upon us. Now the evidence is on television, for pities sake!"

"You mean the Tokyo Incident?" I say, wondering again if that dream was really just a dream.

Sonnac nods soberly. "We are at war," he says. "Might will make right, and it will fall upon us to judge the correct application of might." He pauses and stretches out his hand toward me. "It falls upon you, as a soldier of the Templars."

I look down and study my feet. "I'm not really a soldier," I say. "I'm just an English lit student with…well, what was it she said? A _bee problem_. I don't know how to control my powers, much less fight with them."

"That doesn't matter," says Sonnac. "Show me that you have the will, and we can teach you the way. Your remarkable powers can be honed and controlled…at least to a less disastrous effect on property values."

I blush. "Sorry about that," I say. I know it's not his apartment and I shouldn't really be apologizing to him, but I feel like I should apologize to _someone_.

He waves the apology away and goes back behind his desk, sorting through papers till he finds what he's looking for. "We've already taken care of your former residence. An…unfortunate gas explosion was reported there earlier today and the insurance company is providing the funds for repairs and replacement of damaged property. Your roommate and her…boyfriend are a little shaken, but none the worse for wear, and we've managed to convince them of the need to keep discreet about what they saw." He looks up at me. "As for you, it's up to you what your family knows. I've made sure you've been reported as unharmed in the gas explosion, but if you'd prefer to disappear for a while, a retraction can be printed publicizing your unfortunate—and very much exaggerated—demise."

I look up. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like my family to know the truth…or at least as near to the truth as I can tell them."

Sonnac nods. "A wise decision, but try to keep discrete about our involvement. Your family lives in America, and although they're in an isolated area, that entire country is the Illuminati's back yard."

"That's bad?" I say.

Sonnac nods. "You should appreciate the Illuminati are a…difficult topic in the establishment. The bad blood between our societies is positively virulent. It goes beyond some catty trans-Atlantic feud, even if the British have elevated holding grudges over the Revolution to an Olympic Sport. No, this is rooted in the 13th Century, when the Templar's empire was ascendant from the Bosporus to the Orkney. The Illuminati, already well-versed in throwing any game they cannot possibly win, conspired to turn all of the societies against us. How to express our most abject of defeats?" He shook his head. "We got served. The balance of power was swept from the table, never to be recovered. In the chaos the Illuminati wormed into the New World, and…it would be impolitic to call them a peculiarly American phenomenon, but I suppose I just did. They are the American Dream, freed from the shackles of dignity and responsibility. That is what drives them. They may dress Ivy League, but they are the frat boys spiking Lady Liberty's drinks with Rohypnol at a wet T-shirt competition. They are ruin."

I swallow. "Is my family in danger then?"

Sonnac shakes his head. "The Illuminati will not bother with them, most likely, especially if they are kept in the dark about the Secret World. They should be safe, and you can contact them in the morning to let them know that you are safe as well, staying with…friends, let's just say."

I nod. I don't think my Dad could handle the truth anyway, even if it wouldn't put him and Micah in danger.

"Speaking of tomorrow, you'll begin your training then," he sits behind his desk. "There is a private training area that we have reinforced for just that purpose. If I were you, I would spend the night in there in case there are any…unfortunate accidents with your power. You'll be protected there, as will everything around you."

"Thanks," I say. I stifle a yawn behind my hand. "I guess I'll go there now."

"It's just through that door and to the right," says Sonnac, pointing. "Let me know if there's anything you need."

I pause. "Actually…um, I lost my duffle bag," I say. "It had a lot of my clothes and all of my toiletries in it."

"I see," says Sonnac. "Try to get some rest and don't worry about it for tonight. I'll see that any necessary supplies are requisitioned for you in the morning."

"Thank you, sir," I say. I turn and walk out the door.

I follow his directions to another set of double doors, guarded by a pair of Templars. "Goin' into the Crucible?" one of them asks.

"The training area?" I ask.

"Yeah, the Crucible," she repeats.

I nod. "I guess," I say. "Sonnac says I should sleep there tonight."

"Figured he might," says the guard, unlocking the door. She opens it for me and motions me inside. "Made up one of the couches for you, just in case. Sweet dreams. The Brigadier will be by in the morning to start off your training."

I step through the door and she closes it behind me. I hear the key click in the lock. I find myself in a large room with a fully-equipped, lavishly-furnished bar on one side and three red velvet couches spaced out along the other three walls. Three of the walls are richly papered and feature paintings of famous saints and angels, but the fourth, the wall behind the bar, is blank, riveted steel plate. I cross the red carpet to one of the couches, which has had a white pillow placed on one end and a white sheet spread over it. I set my backpack down and tuck it under the couch as a precaution. Then I strip off my shoes and my jacket. With no pajama's to change into, and no intention of undressing further in this strange place, I climb into the makeshift bed and try to sleep. For much of the night, I toss and turn, dreaming of crosses, crusaders, black ooze, and zombies.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Brigadier**_


	14. Brigadier

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: I tried to work in all of Brigadier Lethe's lines, but there was so much going on in this chapter, that his lines were delivered in a totally different order and some of them fell by the way side. Still, I hope I've captured his "greatest hits." This section also presents my interpretation of the use of firearms. I've always thought of them being used this way, but looking at other fanfics, I realize that most everyone else interprets them as firing mundane ammunition that's enhanced with Anima, rather than pure Anima. I've decided to stick to my interpretation for this story, though, as it allows for more improbable (and cool, hopefully), uses of a firearm. There is also, for full disclosure, no cool retractable wall in the Crucible, separating the lounge area from the training area. I added that pretty much exclusively so I wouldn't have to write about Chris freaking about the Rakshasa until Lethe was there to explain their presence.

* * *

**Brigadier**

_Saturday, September 21, 6:00AM_

I awake to the sound of opera music, loud and insistent, rousing both me and my headache. I open my bleary eyes. It takes me a second to remember where I am: the Crucible inside Temple Hall. I start to sit up slowly, then I see a big man marching toward me, slightly hobbled by a brace on his right leg. His face bears wrinkles and scars, and he has a patch over his right eye—but the muscles bulging beneath his shirt and the forceful confidence of his stride warn that he's a force to be reckoned with. He glares at me with his good eye.

"Finally awake then?" he says, stopping a yard away from me.

I nod, sitting all the way up and pulling the white sheet close around myself for protection. I am fully clothed, of course, but it still feels good to have as much between myself and this intimidating man as possible.

"Good," says the man. "Want to explain what you're doing here then, girl?"

"I—I was told I could sleep here…as a precaution, in case I lost control of my powers in the night," I answer.

The man huffs. "You must be the new recruit, then." He looks me over with his one good eye. "Christ Almighty, we've got our work cut out for us!"

I want to shrink back under the bedsheet—and I fervently wish it was some kind of armor instead of cloth—but I don't. I suppose it's like a cornered animal's reflex: when _flight_ is removed from the equation, only _fight_ remains. I glare back at the man. "Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm your trainer, that's who I am." He taps the four medals pinned to his chest, then the scars above his missing right eye. "They put me in here to whip sorry-assed recruits like you into shape after I got these, and these."

"Do you have a name?"

He nods sharply. "My name is Lethe, but you can call me Brigadier, or sir. Got it?"

I regard him silently.

He returns my glare measure for measure, despite having only one eye. "Look, girl, the Crucible is my house, and in my house, my word is law, agreed?"

I let the sheet fall a measure and nod.

"Good, then let's start with rule number one: show some respect for your elders," he says. "When I ask you a question or give you an order, you don't just nod, you say _Yes, sir_. Is that clear, recruit?"

"Yes, sir," I say, trying to relax. He is my trainer after all, and the last thing I need is to make an enemy out of him.

"Good. Rule number two is don't sleep on my couches," he says. "Understood?"

"But the guard last night-"

"Is that how I told you to answer my questions?"

"No, sir, but-"

"And did I ask you why you were sleeping on my couch?"

I glare at him again. "No, sir."

"Then get your sorry ass off of my couch!" He turns away, stalking toward the far side of the room before I can even mutter a _yes, sir_ at his back.

I swing my legs down to the floor and let the sheet fall. I'm still wearing the blue t-shirt and jeans from yesterday, and I wish I had something else to change into—not that I would consider changing clothes in front of Brigadier Lethe. Instead, I notice that the morning air in the room is a little cool, so I put on my striped hoodie, pull my hair back into a rough ponytail, and put on my shoes and my glasses—ready to face whatever my new personal drill sergeant can throw at me.

Or so I think. Before he even speaks to me again, he proves me wrong. He flips a switch on the wall on the far side of the room. The sound of motors whining can be heard over the opera music. The fourth wall, that's unfurnished and made of riveted steel, suddenly begins to rise, revealing a twin set of carpeted stairs beyond it, which lead down to a huge, open, tiled room. He flips another switch and a series of crystal chandeliers illuminate the vaulted ceiling of the other room. By their light, I can see some sort of a shooting range at the far end of the room.

Lethe catches me staring and gestures toward the other room. "Welcome to the Crucible," he says. "Forget your mother's teat, girl, from now on, this is your home. This is where you learn to stay alive. You've come here an empty slate. You've potential, that's why you were recruited, but that potential needs strict guidance." He give me a warning look. "You're a loaded weapon, and if you don't learn to control yourself and channel your powers, you'll end up hurtin' yourself…or others."

I walk toward him. "How do I control my power?" I ask. "I'm having another headache, and I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"You won't have to worry about that here," says the Brigadier. He descends the stairs slowly and motions for me to do the same. "From now on, this is the most important room in the world for you. It's a place where you can try out all of your new-found power without risk of hurting yourself. With the help of a few props, we've done our best to make the environment as realistic as possible."

He motions to some large dark shapes hanging in an alcove. At first, I think they're giant punching bags, but then I get a closer look at them. They're not punching bags at all. They're huge creatures, seven feet tall and vaguely man-shaped, suspended with their arms and legs stretched toward the ceiling and floor by heavy chains. As I look one of them raises its gray-skinned head. An eyeless face regards me, and the creature pants through yellowed fangs.

I recoil, stumbling over the last two stairs to the tile floor. I scramble to my feet again quickly, backing away from the chained creatures. "What _are_ those things?!"

"Those things are called Rakshasa; they're basic hellhounds," he says calmly. "We keep them chained. They used to make such a mess of the new recruits…"

My eyes dart from him to the creatures, wondering if he's serious. "What…what are they doing here?"

"They're here for target practice," he says, gesturing toward the firing range and an alcove on the opposite side of the room. I can see more Rakshasa at the end of the range, and in the other alcove. Those are chained to rusty, bloodstained X-frames. There are no other targets available. "Don't worry," Lethe says. "They don't feel a thing, and they're unworthy of mercy. Like I said, they're here for realism. The demons here are tied up, but they bleed the same." He moves on, into the center of the room. I follow, as much to be as far away from the Rakshasa as the room allows as for anything else.

"We have a choice of weapons for you to practice with; try as many as you wish. When we're done, you get to keep one," he says. "You'll find we have a diverse selection." His gesture takes in several cases scattered around the room, each holding multiple versions of the same weapon on red velvet padding. In the alcove to the left there are swords and sledgehammers. In front of the firing range there are semi-automatic pistols, shotguns, and assault rifles. In the alcove to the right, with the vertically-chained Rakshasa, there are several items I would never call weapons, including iron bucklers, brown-bound books, and some kind of white doll-like figurines.

I give him a confused look. "I thought I was supposed to learn how to use my power," I say.

"You are," he says. "You have the ability to manifest Anima—your lifeforce—in the physical world: to enhance your strength, your physical attributes, to do magic…martial magic, none of that fairy stuff!" He limps over to the case with the figurines in it and lifts one of them out. "Whatever trinket you hold in your hand is merely a way to direct your powers. We don't do magic wands here; through your weapon, you channel and wield your magic." He looks at me. "And never mind why this power's been awakened in you. You're not the only one, and you're not the Chosen One. You're part of an army—_our_ army—and from now on, you'll do as you're told. It's the way of the Templars, understand?"

"Yes, sir," I say, though in truth I don't think I'll understand any of this _anima_ business until I get a chance to try one of these weapons, and maybe not even then.

I don't have to wait long. As soon as he's done talking, Lethe hands the figurine to me. It feels…odd in my hand: cool like ice, but as smooth and hard as crystal. It's slick, but it isn't wet or even damp. It has a small carabineer attached to the head of the figurine and I use this to clip it to the belt loop of my pants. Having it hang there is somehow more natural than having it in my hand. Its weight, at least, feels normal, whereas touching it definitely felt weird. "What kind of a weapon is this?" I ask.

"It's an elementalism focus," he says simply.

"A what?"

The Brigadier sighs. "Look, elementalism is a form of Anima magic," he explains. "It's as much a fringe science as magic. It manipulates and exploits the elemental forces to a punishing effect."

"Meaning?"

The Brigadier rolls his eye. "Lightning. Fireballs. Sonnac says you tore your apartment up with elemental powers, girl! I thought this would be an easy place to start you off."

"Okay," I say. "How do I use it?"

"It's right there in the name," he says. "Elementalism_ focus_. Just focus your power in the weapon, channel it through the doll into your hands, then into your target: one of those Rakshasa hanging here. Understand?"

I take a deep breath and nod.

"Remember my first rule," he says, though his voice is not as hard as it was before.

"Yes, sir," I say.

I step closer to the nearest Rakshasa. It doesn't move. It's head is turned away from me. With its eyeless face, I'm not sure if that makes a difference or not, but it is a little more comforting not to be facing the creature head-on. I adopt a balanced stance, hold out my hands, and focus on the power building within me. I imagine it flowing out, into the figurine at my waist, then back into my hand in the form of lightning. I hear the air crackle. A ball of lighting has formed in my hand. I stretch out my hand toward the Rakshasa and a bolt of lightning arcs out, hitting the creature. It grunts as electricity dances along its thick hide and grounds through the chains that suspend it. I close my eyes again and try fire this time. Twin fireballs appear in my hands. I thrust them toward the creature and the flames merge into a single fireball, hitting its chest. It grunts again and its skin smolders from the impact, but it seems otherwise unharmed. I try lightning again, and that's when things go wrong.

I form a lightning bolt and cast it alright, but the creature's claws twitch just before I cast and my concentration slips. Instead of casting at the Rakshasa's body, the bolt goes wild, glancing off its claw and hitting the chain. It races up to the ceiling, bounces off, and hits me square in the chest.

I go flying and land on my back on the tile several yards away. I skid one yard further before I come to a stop. I don't feel any pain, though. I reach for my chest, where the bolt hit, and find a black scorch-mark on my T-Shirt. Lifting it up, though, I find my skin unmarked beneath it.

Brigadier Lethe shakes his head and limps toward me. "You know, girl, anywhere else in the world, that blast would have killed you. What were you thinking?"

"I don't know. I guess I got distracted…sir."

The Brigadier manages to bend over a bit and pull me to my feet. "Then perhaps the elementalism focus isn't for you," he says. "You may have started out by shooting lightning and fire, but it's obvious you're a long way from controlling these manifestations." He limps over to where the guns are. He picks up a pistol and hands it to me. "You ever fired one of these before?" he asks.

I nod, then say, "Yes, sir. My Dad used to take me shooting up in the mountains, and I'm qualified for concealed-carry in the States."

The Brigadier grunts. He motions toward the targets. "Remember, the weapon is just a tool for channeling your Anima. Focus your power into each shot. Infuse it into each bullet. The magic goes where the bullet goes, when the bullet goes, so as long as you don't point it at yourself and pull the trigger it should be pretty hard to hurt yourself with magic this way."

I nod and step down the range, closer to the target. The Rakshasa bound at the end of the range does not react. I raise the pistol—a Glock 17, I think, like the one my Dad keeps in the glovebox—and cock it, trying to concentrate on letting my power fill the magazine, infusing the individual bullets. I take aim at the monster's torso and fire. The shot hits and the creature grunts. I can see it bleeding a little. I swallow. It is the first time I've shot something alive. I remind myself that it's a monster, and that if I met it in the field it would be me or it—and I had better be prepared to take the choice entirely out of its clawed hands.

I take a deep breath and fire again. My second shot its within a couple inches of the first one. Dad always said I was a natural. I fire again, and again, and again. Bullet after bullet slams home, all landing in a space no bigger than my outstretched hand. The Rakshasa grunts with each new impact and blood runs from the wounds, dribbling onto the floor, but it shows no signs of dying. In fact, as I fire the last round, I notice that the hole from my first shot is already closing. Perhaps whatever it is that kept me from dying when I hit myself with lightning is also keeping this monster alive. I try not to think about that.

I turn away from the Rakshasa and walk back to Brigadier Lethe. For the first time since I've seen him, he wears what I could almost call a smile. "Nice shooting, girl," he says.

"Thanks," I say. I eject the empty clip and hand it to him.

His smile fades. "What are you handing me that for, girl?"

"It's empty," I say, eyeing him strangely. "I'll need another one if I'm to continue…if you want me to continue, that is, sir."

"Of course I want you to continue," he says. "That was fine shooting, and good, controlled use of your power. Go back and keep shooting till I tell you to stop."

I hold the clip out to him again. "I can't fire from an empty clip."

Lethe thrusts it back to me. "Of course you can. The gun was empty when I handed it to you," he says. His lips turn up in a smirk. "Don't tell me you thought you were hitting that beast with little bits of lead. You were shooting it with pure Anima, magic—made physical and deadly."

I stand there, stunned. What he's saying is simply too incredible to be true, but I have to test it. I put the clip back into the gun and cock it. I turn and fire experimentally. Nothing happens. It turn back. "If it was empty, how come I can't shoot it now?"

"If it wasn't empty, where are the shell casings?"

I search the ground, downrange where I was shooting, but there are no casings to be seen. The floor is completely clear. My pistol wasn't firing any normal bullets, or any bullets at all. It was cycling while empty, and discharging magic.

"Here." The Brigadier digs a fresh magazine out of his pocket, takes the gun from me, and reloads it before handing it back. "Sometimes this helps, at least at first, until your mind adapts to what's going on and learns how to control it." He leans a little closer and whispers. "The gun's still empty, but don't tell your subconscious that."

I'm not sure if a subconscious can be tricked like that, but I decide it's worth a try. I concentrate on infusing the "bullets" with magic and point the gun downrange. I fire. The shot goes wide, chipping the cement wall behind the Rakshasa. No shell is ejected, but the pistol cycles smoothly nonetheless. I step closer and take aim again. It's time to start shooting until the Brigadier tells me to stop.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Phone Home**_


	15. Phone Home

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: Another intermediary chapter that I thought necessary for transition's sake. For the record, Storm is the property of Marvel Comics, which (surprise) I don't own either.

* * *

**Phone Home**

_Saturday, September 21, 7:00PM_

By the end of the day, I can empty a clip into an area the size of the palm of my hand. I still have to stop, eject the clip, and reload it every seventeen shots, but I'm getting better. I think maybe tomorrow I'll be able to convince my subconscious that I'm not firing real bullets anyway, so I don't have to reload. For now, my headache is long gone and I feel exhausted. Finally, Brigadier Lethe tells me we're done for the day.

"Remember rules seven and two," he says. "We start at six each morning, and you don't sleep on my couches."

"Where will I stay, then?" I ask. "I can't go back to my old apartment."

"Sonnac's got you set up with a studio flat on Redcrosse Circus…in that bloody big complex they're working on just outside the square. I got the address from him while you were taking dinner."

He hands me a notecard. The pencil-scrawl on it is barely legible, but there's a brass key taped to the back of the card. The key is engraved with a simple "304C." After a minute, I figure out that the scrawled note is trying to communicate the same thing: "Chris to stay at 304C Redcrosse Circus," it says.

"This doesn't look like Sonnac's handwriting," I say, remembering the note he left on the business card I received at my old apartment.

"Course not, it's mine," says the Brigadier. "I made notes while he was talking to me."

I decide it isn't wise to mention how hard the notes are to read. "Do you think it's safe for me to sleep outside the Crucible?" I ask instead.

"You've used enough of your power to keep yourself from overloading tonight, I'm sure. You're not burned out, since you've been channeling in small, controlled bursts, but you're not a danger to anyone when you're this exhausted. In time, you'll learn to keep your power manageable even without expending it daily. If you're in doubt, of course, you can take the pistol with you. Just mind where you point it. It may be empty, but with your power in it, it can be more deadly than anything that fires lead."

I decide to take the pistol, just in case. I don't think I'll need to use it, and I shudder to think what I'd do to the new apartment if I did—bullet holes may be many times more controlled and easier to cover up than random lightning strikes, but neither make for good décor. But it's good to have it, just in case…and after seeing the Rakshasa this morning, _just in case_ not only covers a sudden need to expend power, but also my fear of finding out that Rakshasa aren't the only monsters in existence, or that not all of them are chained up.

I tuck the pistol into my backpack and leave the Crucible for the first time that day. It's dark again outside, and Temple Hall is once again lit with flaming braziers, and Templar guards are everywhere. If any of them notice me as I walk by, they don't show it. I leave Temple Hall and walk to the apartment building across the square and beyond the police barricade. The building is clearly old, but it's been kept in good condition. The hallways have a thick, red carpet and the wallpaper has small white crosses on a red field. I can guess who's behind the operation and maintenance of the apartments, and I suppose it makes sense. There are a lot of people at Temple Hall, and they would need some place to stay. And if the Templars run this complex, it's probably the safest place in London for me to stay right now, short of the Crucible.

I find my apartment without much difficulty, aided by the brass plaques set into the wall every so often to tell visitors which room numbers are which way. I come to a white door with "304C" written on a plaque beside it. I pull the key off the back of the notecard and open the door. The space looks cramped, even if it is well-furnished. There's a bed with red and white sheets that pulls double-duty as a sofa. On the dark mahogany coffee table beside it there are several crisp black paper bags. I set my backpack down near the door and investigate them. The first ones contain travel-size shampoos, toothpaste, and other toiletries. The others contain clothes. The clothes are not what I would have chosen-white button-down blouses with black slacks—but they are all in my size, including the bras. It is a little intimidating, for a moment, to think that the Templars can somehow get enough information on me to get accurate sizing for all of my clothes—but then the moment passes with the relief of having clean, whole clothes to change into. The charred spot in my t-shirt disintegrated earlier in the day, leaving me with a nickel-sized hole in my shirt, just below my bra. At least the shirt is the only thing the stray bolt of lightning ruined. I'm grateful I won't be casting any lightning again any time soon.

I feel better after I've showered and changed, using one of the long-sleeved blouses in lieu of PJs, but there's still one thing I need to do. I dig out my cell phone and turn it on. There's a missed call from home, and a message: "Hi, Chris. We heard about what happened to your apartment. I'm just calling to check on you. Give me a call as soon as you can." I can hear the worry in Dad's voice. I know I need to reassure him, even if I can't tell him the truth. I hit speed-dial 1 and he picks up on the first ring.

"Hey, Dad, it's me," I say.

"Chris?" my Dad's voice answers. "Thank God you're alright!"

"Yeah, I was away at class when the gas explosion happened," I lie. "I'm fine."

"Where are you staying?" he asks.

"I'm at a hostel," I tell him. "The Red Cross is providing temporary housing, until the damage to the apartment can be repaired." It's almost true…in that the Templars do use a red cross as one of their symbols.

"What about your things?"

"I managed to hold on to a few, like my laptop, Mom's necklace, and a few essentials. I lost almost all my clothes though," I say, truthfully for once. "But I've been provided with some more clothes, so I'll be okay for a while."

"I'll have Micah pack up some of your clothes here and we'll ship them to you," Dad says. "That way you can have some of your own, at least to get you by until you can purchase some new ones."

It's a sensible idea. Knowing me _until I can purchase some new ones_ could be a very long time, since I hate shopping and will procrastinate it as long as possible. Of course, now that there are extenuating circumstances, such as my newfound abilities to hurl lightning bolts and fire empty guns, as well as my connection to the Templars, I may be able to postpone shopping indefinitely.

"You're sure you're doing all right?" my Dad asks again.

"Yeah," I assure him. "I'm a little shaken up by everything that's happened, but I'm going to be just fine. I promise." A pause. "Is Micah around?"

"He's here," Dad says. "He's been worried about you, too, though he won't admit it."

I hear Micah's voice in the background whine, "_DA-ad!_"

Dad chuckles. "Would you like to talk to him?"

"Sure, put him on," I say.

After a moment, I hear Micah's voice from the other end. "Yeah, sis. I heard you blew up your place."

"It was an accident," I say, then quickly add, "And it wasn't my fault. It was just a gas explosion. It could have happened to anyone. I was just lucky I wasn't there when it happened."

"Yeah, you would have been deep-fried," he says. "Deep-fried sisters are no good."

"Too fattening?" I joke.

"Nah, they just always need more salt."

I laugh. It feels good. I don't think I've laughed in over a week. Then of course, I remember all the reasons I haven't laughed, including some of the more recent and troubling reasons. "Hey, Micah, I have another conspiracy-theory question for you. Do you know anything about a monster called a Rakshasa?"

"Hmm…not much," he says. "I mean, the term does come up now and again, but generally it's talking about role-playing games. Apparently they come up a lot there. I hear they're originally from Eastern mythology…Hindu or Buddhist, something like that."

"Do you know anything about what they're like?"

"It depends on the source," he says. "In some games-"

"Let's ignore the games," I say. I seriously doubt those contain even an ounce of truth. "What about the myths?"

"Um, I don't know much about them, but I think they're supposed to be big, mean, and beast-like," he says. "Oh, and they're cannibals, too, or at least, man-eaters."

Suddenly, I don't feel any guilt at shooting the things.

"What is this about anyway?" Micah asks.

"Oh, it's just that essay on mythology I was telling you about," I say.

"You mean the supernatural?"

"What?"

"When you told me about it yesterday, it was an essay about the supernatural," he says.

"Oh, yeah, it's about that too," I say quickly.

Micah drops his volume and his voice becomes more serious. "Look, Chris, what's going on? Dad's in the kitchen now, and I promise I won't tell him…but you've got to tell me."

"What do you mean what's going on?"

"I mean with all these sudden questions about old myths, conspiracy theories, and superpowers," he says.

"I told you, I'm writing an essay."

"Uh, huh," he says, unconvinced. "And what about your apartment? That whole thing about the gas-explosion is rather fishy, especially with how you were acting the day before."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie.

Micah sighs. "Look, Chris, I can tell you're lying to me."

I say nothing.

"This has something to do with the Templars, doesn't it?" he says.

I panic, but I try not to let it reach my voice. "Why would you say that?" I ask.

"It makes sense: the first weird thing you did was you asked about the Templars, and from what I've heard, they're pretty well established in London. Some sources say they even have their own secret section of London called Ealdwic, that no one can visit without their permission."

I say nothing, lest my surprise betray me.

"And now you're asking about monsters and trying to act all casual," he says. "Chris, are you sure you're okay?"

"I am," I say truthfully. "I'm a lot better than I was a couple days ago when I called you."

"What's going on?" he asks again.

I look down at my feet. "I can't tell you, Micah…for your own protection. You're just gonna have to trust me on this one."

"Chris-" he pleads.

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you," I say again. I decide to cut the conversation short, before he has a chance to weasel anything out of me. "I have to go," I say. "Tell Dad I love him and I'm staying safe." With that, I hang up.

I turn my phone off and flop down on the bed. It's harder than I expected, but that's not what keeps me awake late into the night. Micah is figuring things out, and Sonnac's warning keeps going through my head. Now, I have worries about my family's safety to add to my own. I pray for their protection and cry myself to sleep.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Confidant**_


	16. Confidant

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: This was a part of the story I wasn't originally planning when I started writing. It'll be interesting to see how it plays out in any future stories. The inter-dimensional wireless was inspired by a communications transcript used in one of the ARGs. The protected persons list is completely made up by me, but hopefully it makes sense.

Edit: I hadn't noticed earlier, but Sonnac's reference to his fictional email address was edited out by anti-link features of this site. I have restored it, since it is not an actual link and doesn't really go anywhere...or does it?

* * *

**Confidant**

_Sunday, September 22, 6:00AM_

I wake early and return to Temple Hall. As I'm walking to the Crucible, I pass by Sonnac's office. He looks up and sees me and calls out, "Ah, Chris! If you have a minute, I'd like a word with you."

"Brigadier Lethe is expecting me," I say.

Sonnac waves the concern away as he comes around his desk. "The good Brigadier will understand your delay, I'm sure." He motions me into his office and I follow.

"I hear from Lethe that your training is proceeding well," he says.

I nod. "I am learning to control my powers, and I only have a slight headache this morning, which is definitely an improvement on how I normally wake up," I say.

"Nevertheless, you look tired this morning," he says.

I shrug. "I didn't sleep that well last night."

"Ah, I hope it wasn't our accommodations that were to blame."

I shake my head. "It was just…hard to get to sleep with so much to worry about."

"Family?" he asks.

I nod. "How did you know?"

"Your call to the Americas last night came to my attention," he said. "I was expecting you would make such a call, after our conversation of a couple nights ago, and I was curious how it would go."

"You tapped my phone?"

"For full disclosure, we monitor all cellular traffic in Ealdwic, purely as a precaution," says Sonnac. "We respect the privacy of ordinary citizens, and agents such as yourself, of course, but it never pays to be naïve about it."

I sigh. I suppose I should have expected something like this, given all the other things the Templars know, and the fact that I'm now practically living and working in their headquartes. "I suppose I'm in trouble then," I say. "I didn't mean for my brother to find out about the Templars."

Sonnac smiles and shakes his head. "Not at all. I thought you played the game of _we can neither confirm nor deny_ rather well, actually." He turns to his desk and thumbs through his files. "Your brother is a special case, though, not what we anticipated. It seems he is already aware of the Secret World, at least to a degree."

"The Secret World?" I repeat.

Sonnac folds his hands and turns back to me. "I shall risk the assumption that you're not a skeptic, or at the least, not a skeptic any longer. It will make explication easier on both of us. Your brother, Micah Warden, is certainly no skeptic himself."

I nod. Micah has always been fascinated with, and apparently believed in, all sorts of things I discounted as unreal—things which don't seem nearly as unbelievable to me any more.

"Someone I once trusted dearly once told me, _There are no monsters, only us_," Sonnac continues. "Advice to live by, but from here on in, you'll find that things have a slight tendency towards complicated. Our world is a strange, dark place, and it's strangeness is currently accelerating—to say nothing of the darkness."

I remember the Tokyo Incident, and the strange dream I had about it…if it was a dream. I try to shut the memory out.

"Every myth, every legend, every dirty limerick created to make sense of what is unknowable and unfair—it's all true, or at least sufficiently true to cause alarm," Sonnac says.

"Like monsters like the Rakshasa being real?"

Sonnac nods. "There are monsters, yes: fewer now, as over the centuries we Templars have done our bit to thin their numbers. But they are real, as are the secret societies that hunt them, create them, or control them…and a number of stranger, less savory things that don't bear mention at present. In short, the reality you believed balances quite precariously over the reality you chose not to believe. This is what we call the Secret World. As a Templar, you guard that balance. I trust you'll come to think of this opportunity as a blessing. A curse would be to have this awareness, this power, and do nothing."

"And my brother?"

"Micah Warden is an interesting case, as I said. Some people are invited into the Secret World." Sonnac gestures to me. "Others seem to find it on their own. Granted, there are literally millions of conspiracy theorists and occult fangirls out there. The overwhelming majority of them may be safely disregarded. The secret societies make sure these days to spread a web of lies just beneath the surface of the everyday world most people believe in. It manages to divert most of the internet personalities and private inquirers into a world of half-truths and blatant lies that seems to keep them entertained and out of our hair. Every now and again, though, one of them will manage to cut through the lies and begin to piece together the truth of the Secret World on their own. Working like that, they usually don't have much information to go on, so they're generally not a threat…but now Micah isn't on his own anymore: has a sister who's on the inside." He gives me a serious look. "Even with the best play of_ we can neither confirm nor deny_, you will not be able to conceal everything, especially from family."

"What do you want me to do?" I ask. "I can't just stop talking to him…I mean, he's my little brother: he's annoying, but I love him."

"I'm not suggesting that," says Sonnac. "If you were to suddenly drop contact at this point, it might only make matters worse. Besides, the Templars are built on traditions and strong loyalties. Family bonds are some of the oldest traditions and strongest loyalties humankind has. In fact, there was once a time when you couldn't get into the Templars without good family connections."

"You want him to join?" I ask.

Sonnac shakes his head. "Someday, perhaps, but the choice to join our organization is one we believe should be left entirely up to the individual. We prefer the choice be as informed as possible, though we are sometimes forced to make exceptions." He points to me. "In your own case, your emergent powers did not give us the luxury of much time for explanation and introduction. He has no such…extenuating circumstances, so he should not be rushed into a decision quite as quickly as you were. So, no, I don't want you to recruit him. I want you to confide in him."

I blink, startled. "What do you mean?"

"Everyone needs a confidant," Sonnac says, pacing. "It's human nature: the desire not to be alone. In the Templars, you are never alone, but perhaps for the present, you will find our company somewhat…wanting. Many Templars have been with us for some time. Some of us grew up knowing about the Secret World. Others are simply too busy to be sympathetic."

He glances back at his desk. "I confess I fall most nearly in that last category. You should know that I am eternally busy, though for my sins I prefer a more civilized mode of correspondence than RSonnac-at-theTemplars .org . So while my time is limited, my door will always be cautiously ajar." He looks back at me. "Your smooth transition to the Templars is among my top priorities, certainly in the upper percentile. Should you be unsure of the correct conduct in any situation, I want you to come to me in the first instance. We can speak in confidence and largely without judgment. I will take pains to understand. I took this position because I saw a new way for the Templars to achieve our old potential. Ours is an organization with no shortage of history-some might say too much history—but you are our future. I want to make sure it isn't squandered."

He sighs. "But as much as I would like to give you my full attention, I have other demands, and I am neither your peer nor your family. Micah is both, and is considerably less burdened than I. He can be the confidant you need in order to make sense of what you're going through. To some extent, he already is."

"But is it safe to confide in him?" I ask. "I thought you said the Illuminati might come after my family if they knew about the Secret World?"

"This is true, they might," says Sonnac. "But your brother will find out about the Secret World on his own. Already, he is through the lies that shield it from the merely curious. If you do not help him fill in the blanks, his concern for his sister will lead him to fill them in himself, possibly with much more disastrous results. This way, he can learn enough about the Secret World to keep himself and his connection with you off the Illuminati's radar."

"There are precautions he can take, then?"

Sonnac nods and picks up a touch-screen phone from his desk. "This is one such precaution. We have these specially manufactured by a company in Geneva. It comes with several features not standard to any phones available on the market, not the least of which is inter-dimensional wireless."

"Inter-what?"

Sonnac smiles. "Standard cellular transmission and reception with an arcane twist," he says. "It's much more flexible and much more difficult to trace—though not impossible, mind you." He hands the phone to me. "I want you to have this. Eventually, it will help us keep in touch while you're in the field, relaying vital information and instructions. For, now, though, it can help you and your brother communicate more discretely. If it becomes necessary, I will also make sure to make an issue of the Warden family's safety with the Council of Venice."

"The Council of Venice?" I remember that name from the dream of the Tokyo Incident. It was something Alex said. _Shouldn't we consult with the Council of Venice first?_ "Is that an Illuminati embassy or governing body, or something?"

Sonnac shakes his head. "Hardly," he says. "The Council is the regulating body of the entire Secret World. You might think of it like a clandestine United Nations. It convenes in beautiful ancient Venice. You would think this would make diplomatic duty an easy sell. I assure you from experience, the charm quickly fades. All societies have representatives on the Council, arguing cases and contributing to the air of ritual theatric. The masks are the votes, or the votes are the masks…something like that." He pauses trying to recall, then shrugs it off with a chuckle. "I forget now. The point is the Council likes to settle things with in-person debates, speeches, and filibusters. Normally, I would applaud the resistance to going digital, but Venice's backlog stretches to the Bronze Age. You see, at the time of its formatting, the Council was small and the Secret World was simpler to conceal. But our modern lives have proven much less forgiving of the scientifically impossible. In attempts to compensate, Venice has introduced more and more layers of idle management. The net effect is that nothing brought before the Council is ever decided. Their only real achievement is preventing all-out-war between the societies. For that we are grateful. It even manages, somehow, to keep a relative peace between ourselves and the Illuminati."

"So how is this secret bureaucratic behemoth supposed to help keep my family safe? It sounds like they can barely agree on how to pull their pants on every morning," I quip, crossing my arms.

Sonnac laughs. "Very true. However, the Council does have several standing agreements, decisions made in simpler times which are relatively easy to amend. One of these is a sort of protected persons list."

"If you put my family on that list, the Illuminati won't be able to touch them?" I ask.

"Yes, and no," says Sonnac. "The list does not actually forbid the secret societies from going after the individuals on it. What it does to is classify attacks on these persons as acts of war. The societies are at war, to be sure, but in order to keep the war and the entire Secret World with it from spilling into the open, fighting has been restricted to select locations of arcane interest scattered around the world. None of them are in Colorado, so if the Illuminati were to go after someone on the protected persons list residing there-"

"It would be a violation of an ancient treaty, and probably result in unrestricted warfare between themselves and the Templars," I finish.

"Exactly," says Sonnac. "They won't risk that, not for the family of a new recruit, so getting them on that list would probably keep them safe indefinitely."

"I would appreciate that," I say, tucking the new phone into my pocket. "I'll also consider what you've said, about confiding in my brother. I have to admit, it would be good to have someone know what I've been going through—um, not that you're not someone, sir."

Sonnac simply smiles. "I quite understand. Let me know what you decide. In the meantime, I'm afraid I've delayed you long enough. Even with me, Brigadier Lethe's patience has its limits."

"I guess I'd better not keep him waiting then," I say.

I wave goodbye to Sonnac and leave his office, heading for the Crucible. As I walk, I swing my backpack around so I can dig the pistol I received the other day out of one of its pockets. My headache is getting worse. It's time to practice Anima magic again.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Girl with Guns**_


	17. Girl with Guns

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: There is a kernel of truth to my depiction of the wards here. In-game, if you attack the practice targets persistently enough, you can eventually whittle their enormous health pools down to about a quarter of their original number. However, at that point, the game will simply negate further damage, keeping you from killing off its practice targets. There is also no single-weilding option for pistols in the game. Chris's first attempt with the shotgun is true to the game: the move she's attempting is the "Kneecapper," which you're allowed to play around with for free in the tutorial, but in main gameplay it's an elite skill that can't be unlocked without first gaining a fair amount of experience: she would never be able to use it at this stage. The bit about the assault rifle is pretty nigh all truth. CGI model for the first assault rifle you receive is clearly an AK-47 with a grenade-launcher attached under the barrel. In real life, the AK-47 does not have a burst-fire mode, but in game the first ability you get with it is a three-round burst (which an additional low-level ability turns into a four-round burst with the same animation). My explanation: when you're shooting magic, guns do what you want them to, even if they shouldn't. :)

On the count of spent casings in game, I admit to being totally busted here. Pistols may not seem to eject casings, but the spent shells can be seen flying away in some of the shotgun animations, and every time you fire a burst with an assault rifle you can hear the brass clinking off the floor after you fire. I am also busted on account of AK-47s not generally having fire-selectors that are clearly labeled in English.

* * *

**Girl with Guns**

_Sunday, September 22, 11:00AM_

Lethe has me take a break at 11 o'clock for the service in the chapel attached to Temple Hall. It's a traditional Anglican service, which is a lot more formal than anything I'm used to. For a moment, I wish I'd been able to hold onto a nice long dress for the occasion, but then I notice that several other women in the congregation are wearing pants, including all of the members of the Temple guard who have attended in uniform (though I know there must be many still outside, on duty). After the service, we have lunch in the Crucible, at the bar in the upstairs lounge area. Lethe's not much of a conversationalist, and I am preoccupied with my thoughts.

I have made progress with my training. By the time resume firing after lunch, I am able to fire shots continuously without reloading. I have never fired so many rounds before in my life as in these past two days, and I must say I am impressed with the result. The spread of my shots is down to an area about the size of Dad's wristwatch. Brigadier Lethe still doesn't seem that impressed, though. When I take a break, he grabs my shoulder before I can start shooting again and says, "You'll need to do better than that, girl, if you intend to survive in the field."

"I thought I was doing pretty good, sir," I counter, a little annoyed. "I mean, I could hit that thing in the eye nine times out of ten from here, if I wanted to—and if it had an eye."

"And from here, what good would that do you, if it wasn't chained up—and you didn't have me to save your sorry ass?" he asks. "Rakshasa don't feel pain like you do. You'll find most of the things out there don't. At this point your little sparks of Anima may be accurate, but they're not doing even as much damage as real 9mm ammunition could. All they'd do is annoy the demon, and incite it to come looking for you. You'll have to double the damage at least in order to kill it first in the field."

"And what do you suggest, sir? Imagine a larger caliber bullet?"

The Brigadier shakes his head. "No, every weapon has its limits, even with magic. You'll need to double-up. Use two pistols to increase your rate of fire. It's the only way you're going to be able to bring a charging demon down in time." He hands me a second pistol.

I hold the other pistol awkwardly in my left hand. It doesn't feel natural. I point both guns at the Rakshasa and the feeling of awkwardness gets worse. "I know duel-wielding in movies looks cool and all," I say, "but if I pull the trigger right now, my shots are going to be all over that back wall and one of these guns is probably going to go flying straight out of my hand, maybe both."

"With real bullets, yes, but you're firing magic charges," says Lethe. "There shouldn't even be any recoil, and the shots are an extension of your life-force-you should be able to put them anywhere you please."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, sir, but _should_ doesn't mean _will_," I say. "I've been firing one gun for a couple days now, and there's always been recoil and I've only managed to put the shots very close to where I want them. I only just convinced my subconscious that I didn't actually have to reload!"

"Then for the moment, we'll need to give you something bigger, something you can still convince yourself you can realistically wield." He holds out his hands and I give him the guns. He returns them to their case and comes back to me with a black pump-action shotgun. I think it's a Remmington 870, like my Dad owns, but his has a rifle stock and this one has a pistol grip. "This should give you some more fire-power," he says, "Though even with Anima, the range is limited. Try it out."

"Yes, sir," I say. I take the shotgun and cock it automatically. No shell comes out, of course. I didn't really expect Lethe to have loaded it with real bullets. I'm reminded of the dream I had about the Tokyo Incident. When I was in Sarah's head, her shotgun didn't eject any shells either. I walk toward the Rakshasa at the end of the firing range and decide to see if I can replicate any of the things I saw Sarah doing. Perhaps the dream wasn't so unrealistic after all.

My first attempt is a failure. I angle the shotgun at the ground and pull the trigger, but all I get is a spray of dust as buckshot (or magic acting like buckshot) ricochets off the cement floor.

"What on Earth are you trying to do, girl?" demands Lethe. "Don't tell me your aim has gotten so bad you can't even point your weapon in the right general direction!"

"Sorry, sir," I say sheepishly. I raise the shotgun and fire at the Rakshasa directly. The shotgun kicks as I remember it doing when I went shooting with my Dad, and the shot is certainly more devastating to the Rakshasa than the pistol hits. Each blast tears apart pale flesh, exposing bones and—unexpectedly—spikes of rusted metal. The wounds still close quickly, but I'm convinced that without whatever magical protections the Crucible provides these creatures, this one would be in serious jeopardy.

I fire twelve rounds, though I'm pretty sure this shotgun doesn't hold that many. I silently congratulate myself on getting over my reloading requirement. That's another thing the dream seems to have gotten right. I decide to try one more trick from the dream. I cock the shotgun, hold it outstretched in one hand. I point it at the Rakshasa's bleeding chest and imagine infusing the gun with a slug of fire, like the one Sarah fired at the lumbering thing she encountered in the Japanese subway. I pull the trigger.

There is, indeed, a fireball. It looks impressive in flight, but doesn't seem to do anything at all to the Rakshasa when it hits. But there's also recoil. The shotgun has kicked every time just like I remember it—and if the Brigadier is right, just as I expect it to…_because_ I expect it to. This time is no exception. The shotgun flies from my hand and clatters to the floor several yards away.

"Bloody Hell, girl, what did you do that for?" Lethe says, limping toward me. I pick up the shotgun and he says, "Give that thing to me before you knock your own head off with it." He snatches the gun away from me. "Just what did you think you were doing?"

I study my feet. "I'm sorry, sir," I say. "I was just…trying something I saw once. I thought it would do more damage. I guess it didn't."

"Didn't do any damage? It did plenty of damage." Lethe points at the Rakshasa. "Didn't you see how the wards in here had to completely negate the shot in order to keep the demon alive? They only do that for lethal hits. That fireball you summoned certainly qualified, at least after all the other damage you'd done to the demon." He waves his hand dismissively. "But never mind all that. What I want to know is why you threw the bloody gun across the room!"

"It kicked, and I wasn't holding it very steadily," I explain.

"It doesn't kick, not unless your mind tells it to," he says. "For the last time, it is not firing real bullets!"

"Well, every shotgun I've ever fired has kicked. I just can't help expecting it to kick when I shoot it," I say.

"Well, look around here and try to find a weapon you haven't used. I don't want you running around expecting your gun to blow itself back out of your hand every time you fire it with magic instead of bullets."

I go back to the cases at the front of the shooting range. I don't know if I can control any of the magic weapons, and I'm not eager to try after my experience with the elementalism focus yesterday. The melee weapons on the other side of the room are also out of the question. I am not getting that close to anything that looks or behaves vaguely like a Rakshasa unless I absolutely, positively, have to. Fortunately, there are still the assault rifles among the firearms. I've never fired one, or really even seen one in real life. I gently lift an AK-47 out of its case.

"Hmm, good damage, excellent range, and a high rate of fire…" Lethe nods approvingly and waves toward the range. "Let's see what you can do when you're subconscious doesn't already think it knows what will happen when you pull that trigger."

"Yes, sir," I say. I flip the safety off and shoulder the rifle, looking down the iron sights at the Rakshasa's chest, which has now completely healed. I fire a four-round burst, then another, then another. The shots aren't very accurate, but I can see blood trickling from the Rakshasa's wounds from here. I turn the rifle and notice the safety switch doubles as the fire-selector, with a position labeled _Auto_ just above where I have it. I flip the lever up and fire from the hip, unleashing a torrent of bullets down range, sweeping across them across the target. There are plenty of hits to the concrete backstop, but there are also plenty of hits to the monster. It grunts, and I notice that when I sweep it with fire again, the shots don't seem to have any effect on it. Apparently I did enough damage to kill the creature anywhere else.

Lethe begins a slow clap as I lower the weapon. I give him a strange look, but he just smirks. "Very good, girl. Do you know what you just did?"

I shrug. "I did enough damage to kill it, hopefully from far enough away that it wouldn't have gotten me first," I say.

He huffs. "Oh, I assure you, it's not that slow, and you were banging away at it for some time. No, I mean with your use of the gun itself, the way it fired, especially those bursts."

I think about it. "I guess that is weird. Doesn't it only have a three-round bust or something?" I know that from watching my brother play shooter games.

Lethe chuckles. "It doesn't have a burst-firing mode at all. It's strictly semi-automatic or automatic, girl—but you made it fire in ways it normally couldn't. And did you notice that when you fired bursts, there was only recoil on the first shot? Not to mention firing from the hip like that with real bullets should have caused you to lose control of the weapon. I think you've finally found a weapon I can send you out into the field with, without my feeling guilty over your inevitable demise. Now, where did you learn to expect it to shoot like that?"

I shrug. "I watched video games," I say.

"I should consider them a part of basic training," Lethe mutters. "Your accuracy could use work, though. Concentrate on putting the bullet rather than the barrel in the right direction. Remember, the magic goes where you tell it to and does what you tell it to, even if it ordinarily wouldn't be physically possible with the weapon."

I nod. "Yes, sir," I say. I shoulder the weapon and resume firing bursts, trying to focus on making the "bullets" go where I want them to. I completely forget to take the selector off of full auto, but it doesn't matter. I am learning that what happens when I fire the weapon is controlled by my mind more than anything else. I am beginning to learn true control.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Confession**_


	18. Confession

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: You may gather from this that the author does not have a touch-screen and is completely clueless in their operation. Fortunately, this makes writing equally clueless characters relatively simple.

* * *

**Confession**

_Sunday, September 22, 7:00PM_

We end my training at 7 o'clock again and I return to my apartment. The first thing I do is transfer my contacts to my new phone…after the unfamiliar touch-screen interface forces me through a couple false-starts anyway. After that, I call Micah. I sit on my bed and wait nervously as the phone rings.

It rings three times before my brother picks up. "Hello? Who's this?" he asks.

"It's me, Chris," I say. "I got a new phone. Sorry, I should have texted you the number."

"It's alright. I'll tell Dad," he says. "Why the switch? You lose the old one?"

"No," I say. "I'll explain why. Are you alone, some place where we can talk privately?"

"Yes," he says slowly. "I'm in my room. Chris, you're being weird again. What's going on?"

I take a deep breath. I have made my decision. My brother is the one person in the world I know who will believe me, and I need to tell someone I trust. "I'm going to have to ask you to promise not to tell anyone—_anyone_—what I'm about to tell you," I begin.

"Now, you're being really weird."

"Micah, I'm serious!"

"Okay! I promise! Pinky-swear and everything. I won't tell a soul."

I sigh and take off my glasses, setting them on the table. That's probably as serous an oath as I'll ever get out of him. Then again, I've never known him to tell my secrets before. I decide to get started with my confession, before I lose my nerve.

"To start with, I owe you an apology—you and Dad, really, but I don't know if it's safe to tell him. I don't think he'd understand."

"An apology for what?"

"For lying to you: lying a lot these last few days, actually," I say. "For starters, there is no essay on either the supernatural or on mythology. There was also no gas explosion at my apartment, though it was basically destroyed, and I did lose most of my things."

"Whoa, whoa! Information overload," he says. "Let's take this one thing at a time, 'kay, or my head'll explode over here."

I smirk. "Okay."

"Good. Um, let's start with your apartment being destroyed by something other than a gas explosion. What destroyed it, exactly?"

"I did," I say.

"You did, as in you caused the explosion?"

"There wasn't an explosion, per se."

"You smashed it with a sledgehammer?"

"I blew it up with lightning," I say. "There were some other elemental powers mixed in, too. Fire, wind…some other stuff I don't even know what it is…" I stop, realizing that there is complete silence from the other end. For a moment, I'm afraid I've accidentally hung up on him with this stupid touch-screen interface. "Hello? Are you still there?"

"Uh…yeah, I am," he says slowly. "You're kidding me, right, about the lightning?"

"No, I'm not. That was the reason I asked if you'd ever heard of someone gaining superpowers by swallowing a bee. That's the only thing I can think that caused this. Everyone who's in the know around here seems to think the same thing, even before I tell them what happened to me," I explain. "About a week ago, I swallowed a bee during the night. I know because I spat out its wings when I brushed my teeth, which was pretty gross. Anyway, after that, I started getting headaches, powers I couldn't control. I wrecked the apartment, I scared off Becky and her boyfriend…and now that I am learning to control them, I can do all sorts of things that shouldn't be possible. They're calling it Anima magic."

"Oh my God, you're one of them, one of the Bees," Micah says.

"One of the what?"

"The Bees," he says. "That's the term that kept popping up on the forums. I was curious and I remembered you asked. I did a little research, hacked a couple sites…"

"Micah!"

"What? It's not like this information is easy to find!" he says. "Anyway, what I found out was that the Bees were some sort of super-powered humans—with something called Anima magic-that seemed to appear or emerge at random. I didn't find out why they were called Bees, but I did find out they used to be ordinary people, and that when they first gained their powers, they typically had trouble controlling them. You're totally a Bee, Chris. It's the only thing that makes sense."

I pause. I don't know how I feel about being a _Bee_. I remember what John called me, when I scared him into fleeing the apartment…how Becky said I wasn't human. I can feel tears stinging my eyes. "Do you think me being a Bee makes me…inhuman…a monster?"

"What? No! No, I never said that," Micah says. "The sites don't even say that. I mean, maybe you have superpowers out the wazzo, and can shoot lightning at unpredictable times, but you're still a person. You're my sister. You'll always be my sister, got it?"

I wipe my eyes. "Thanks, Micah," I say. "I needed to hear that."

"Hey, you're welcome," he says. "Speaking of things we need to hear, I would really love to hear that you're at a stage of learning to control your power where there's no risk this call will end with you accidentally incinerating your phone. That would be a real downer."

I laugh. "I'm past the stage of accidentally blowing things up, shooting lightning randomly, and incinerating objects without meaning to," I say. "I was already starting to learn some control before I met the Templars, but I'm much better thanks to their training."

"So I was right! This does have something to do with the Templars," he says triumphantly.

"Yes, you were right. A woman from the Templars visited my apartment last Thursday. She was the first person I met seemed to know what was happening to me, down to realizing I'd swallowed a bee before I even said anything to her. Anyway, she said the Templars could help me learn to control my powers, and put them to good use. I wanted to know more about the Templars before I made a decision, so I called you. I'm sorry I wasn't more honest with you…do you think I made the right decision, by accepting her offer?"

There's silence for a moment. "Well…I think so," he says at last. "I mean, the Templars can certainly make good on that offer. From the information I've managed to piece together, it seems like they employ a lot of Bees, so they must know a way to teach people to control and use these powers. But…well, I figure there's got to be a catch."

I nod. "There seems to be. After I'm done training, they want me to be a soldier for them."

"You? A soldier? Sorry, sis, but you don't strike me as the soldiering type, more like _schola_r or _unashamed nerd_."

I roll my eyes, but he's right. At 5'2" and 120 lbs, I don't exactly present an imposing figure, especially with dark-rimmed glasses. Hiking and shooting have given me some muscles, but nothing to write home about. But who needs muscles when you can make and control bullets with your mind? "I know it sounds weird," I say, "but with these powers, I am definitely lethal. I destroyed an apartment, remember? And that was with powers I couldn't control. Now, I can do some pretty crazy things, like make an empty shotgun shoot fireballs."

"Whoa, that is pretty crazy…and totally awesome!" Micah laughs. "You are the bomb, sis! I take back every uncool thing I ever said about you."

I laugh, too. "Aw, thanks, you're sweet! I promise if I ever go on a magic-enhanced shooting spree, I'll kill you last."

Micah laughs some more, then pauses. "Um…that won't happen, right?"

"I was totally teasing," I assure him. "No one around here has said I'm any more likely to go ax-crazy than the next girl. The main concern is that I would hurt someone _without meaning to_, and I think I'm past that part. The headaches always proceeded my uncontrolled outbursts of power, and they're starting to go away entirely, I think."

"Okay, good," he says. There's a pause. "Well, it sounds like you can totally be a soldier, if you want, and from the stuff I've read about the Bees, that fits. I guess the question is, do you want to?"

"I want to use these powers for good," I say. "There's a lot of bad stuff out there, stuff I didn't used to believe in—monsters and such. I can kill them, stop them from hurting people. If I was given this power and this knowledge, I was given it for a reason. I can't just sit around and do nothing."

"So…have you met any monsters yet?"

"Some," I confess. "The Rakshasa I asked about yesterday? They're real. The Templars have some of them captured and chained up to use as target practice."

"Whoa…I don't know if that's really cool or really gross. What do they look like?"

"Like big, pale muscular man-shaped things with no eyes and sharp claws on their feet and hands." I shudder. "Brigadier Lethe—that's my trainer—he says that using them makes it more realistic, and that I'll need things to be realistic as possible once I'm out in the field…I believe him."

"What field do you think they have in mind?"

"Honestly? I have no idea, but I'm thinking if Ealdwic can be real-"

"Ealdwic is real!"

I roll my eyes. "Yes, Ealdwic is real. That's where I'm staying right now, just outside Temple Hall, which is the Templar's headquarters," I say. "Anyway, if all that can be real, hiding right smack dab in the middle of London, then a secret war against monsters could be raging practically anywhere and we'd never know. The only site I've heard talked about for sure is Tokyo."

"As in the Tokyo Incident?" Micah asks.

"Yeah."

"And what have you found out?"

"Not much. Something dark and supernatural happened there for sure." I pause. "I had a strange dream, at least, I think it was a dream. I saw the Tokyo subways through the eyes of someone else—I think she was an agent with the Illuminati. There was this dark, foul stuff with moving tentacles and tendrils…they called it the Filth. It took people over, turned them into zombies." I shudder. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"That sounds right, though," Micah says. "There were some pictures someone managed to get from inside the quarantine zone. It showed black tendrils on the walls and floor, and these people with pitch-black skin and glowing yellow eyes attacking security personne, like zombiesl." He sounds less excited than I expected him to.

"It's real then," I say. Somehow, that is far, far worse than having it be a dream.

"Yeah," Micah says soberly. "Listen, sis, if you do wind up going into something like that, promise me you'll be careful. You're my big sis, after all: you're annoying, but I love you, and I haven't exactly got a backup."

"I'll be careful," I promise.

There's noise in the background. It sounds like Dad's voice. I think I can make out _"who are you talking to?"_ Micah sighs. "I better let you go," he says. "If Dad finds out I was talking to you…if he finds out anything about what we talked about in this conversation, there'll be some awkward questions."

"Yeah," I say. "It's late here anyway. I'll let you go. Be careful, though, and don't tell anyone what I've told you."

"Oh, don't worry, my lips are sealed," he says. "Bye, sis!"

He hangs up. I look at the "Call Ended" screen for a moment, till it fades away. I have a confidant, now. It feels good to have gotten all of that off my chest. Still, there are some troubling things, too. Apparently whatever gave me these powers is common enough to have a name, which means there are not just other people out there like me, but possibly a lot of them-and who says all of them are going to use their power for good, like I want to? And then, there's the Tokyo Incident, the unspeakable things I witnessed in that dream. The thought that it could all be real terrifies me. The thought that I could be thrown into something similar makes me wonder if I made the right choice.

It's too late to change my mind now, though. If I am thrown into something like the Tokyo Incident, it will be because I am needed, and because Sonnac believes I can handle it. And that means, I need to take my training seriously and complete it as quickly as I can. I have to be ready.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Exploding Shot**_


	19. Exploding Shot

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: I confess I have no idea whether or not explosive rounds can actually be fired by an AK-47. This, however, is my best guess on how leech is able to heal one person by shooting another with an assault rifle.

* * *

**Exploding Shot**

Monday, September 23, 6:00AM

I have no headache at all the next morning. It's the first time I've woken up pain-free since this all started. When I return to the Crucible, Brigadier Lethe is already there, standing at the end of the firing range. As I approach, he shoulders an AK-47 and fires a series of quick, single shots. I notice smoke drifting up from the weapon and spent cartridges clinking to the floor. I look at his targets and notice that the holes his real ammunition is leaving are much bigger than the holes I've been leaving with magic. He notices me approaching and lowers the weapon, removing the clip and cocking the gun to clear the chamber. "You saw that there?" he points toward the wounded Rakshasa. Its injuries are already healing.

I catch myself nodding, and say, "Yes, sir."

"Good," he says, handing the gun and an empty clip to me. "That's what I want you to do."

"Is that possible with Anima?" I ask. "I know you said I couldn't just use magic to fire a larger caliber when I was using a pistol-"

"Of course it's possible!" Lethe says. He toes an ejected shell. "These aren't larger caliber, they're just explosive rounds. I want you to do the same with Anima."

"And…um, how do I make an explosive round out of magic?"

"You're not firing real rounds, you're firing sparks of magic, Anima, your life force that's under your control, whether you're aware of it or not," says Lethe. "Just concentrate on making it do what you want it to."

"Yes, sir," I say. I insert the empty clip and cock the weapon. Somehow, I still cannot convince my mind that I can fire a weapon without a clip in it, even though I clearly don't need ammunition. I shoulder the rifle and imagine infusing the gun with my power, with bullets made of sparks of magic. But this time I try to imagine the slugs as miniature warheads, ready to explode on contact. It's cheesy, I know, but I think it will work. I hope so. I sight along the barrel and pull the trigger.

My four-shot burst explodes against the Rakshasa's skin, leaving no puncture wounds, only small burn marks. I sigh.

"You can control them," the Brigadier says. "Fire again, this time, make them explode inside the target, not against it."

"Yes, sir," I say dutifully. I concentrate on using the power to change how my "bullets" will act, delay the detonations. I fire another burst. The hits penetrate this time, but the holes aren't any bigger than the ones I was making yesterday. At first, I wonder if anything is going to happen. Then, a second later, the rounds explode. The demon howls as fresh blood flows to the floor.

"Not exactly what I had in mind, but it'll have to do. It'll give you a bit of extra damage in a pinch, and it's a spell that sets you up nicely for one of the essentials," he says. "Remember that each shot you fire is a part of you, your life-force, under your control. So far, you've just been using the gun to deliver that energy to the target and deal physical damage by penetrating its body like a bullet would. But you can also use it to bring energy back again?"

I lower the rifle, puzzled. "Bring it back again? As in, recall my bullets?"

"Not quite," he says. "Better actually. You can use it bring in the Anima of others, and use it for your own purposes. To do that, you must first harm them, as you've been doing, and siphon a bit of the energy your attack severs back to you. The easiest way to do that for beginners, is to use an explosion to propel the energy back to them." He motions to the Rakshasa, which is healed again by now. "Go on, give it a try."

I shoulder my weapon. I know I'll need more concentration to do this trick than I've used for anything else before. I close my eyes and focus on a single "round." I open them again and fire. The shot explodes into the Rakshasa and I feel something, a barely-perceptible tingle, a moment later. I turn to the Brigadier. "Did I get it?" I ask.

"There's one way to find out," he says, reaching toward me. "Give me your hand."

"What?" I say, lowering the rifle.

"Your left hand, give it to me." He beckons.

I turn and slowly place my left hand in his massive hand, palm up. Without warning, his hand closes around the back of mine. He draws a knife with his free hand and slashes the blade across my palm. I cry out in surprise and pain.

He releases my hand. "Now, fire that shot again," he says.

I am too shocked to obey. "Why did you just-"

"Fire it now, girl!"

I turn and raise the rifle, trying not to let the grip touch the stinging cut on my hand. I push aside the pain and confusion. I concentrate on my next shot and I fire. Again, the bullet explodes into the Rakshasa, but this time when I feel the tingling, it's stronger, and only in the palm of my hand. I raise my hand and gasp. My hand is still bloody, but the cut is gone.

"That's more than a parlor-trick, girl," the Brigadier says. "That's called an Anima shot, and it'll keep you alive out there, even in pretty dire circumstances."

"Did you have to demonstrate it like that, sir?" I ask, looking for something I can use to clean the blood off my hand.

"We try to be as realistic as possible here," says Lethe. "Do you think out in the field the wounds you're counting on that shot to heal won't hurt?"

I nod now, understanding. My life may depend on this spell, and I'll certainly need to know how to use it and use it well while in pain and in dire circumstances. I hold out my left hand. "In that case, sir, cut me again. I need practice."

"That's my girl," says Lethe. It's probably the first time I've seen him actually smile.

* * *

Next Time:

_**Final Exam**_


	20. Final Exam

Disclaimer: The Secret World and all associated characters, settings, and situations are the property of Funcom and Electronic Arts. All use of them here is purely for entertainment purposes, without permission or intention to profit.

Author's Note: This last section is short, and hopefully sweet...but I confess it might not be. By the time I reached this point in the writing, I confess to just wanting this project to be over so I could move on to other stories. Hopefully, this has not caused my work her to suffer...And of course, anyone who's played the game _knows_ Solomon Island. Next up: a New England zombie apocalypse!

* * *

**Final Exam**

_Wednesday, September 25, 2:56PM_

It's been five days since I entered training, almost a week since I first encountered the Templars. Today, Richard Sonnac steps into the Crucible to watch my training. "I hope I'm not late," he says.

"You're just in time," says the Brigadier. He turns to me. "Alright, girl, let's see you go through the paces"

I smile, shouldering my AK-47. "Yes, sir!" I say. I take aim at a Rakshasa down at the opposite end of the firing range and fire. Bullets penetrate the creature's chest and explode, but I am already moving on. I walk sideways down to the next lane of the range, take aim, and fire—all while still moving. I walk sideways from one side of the range to the other, firing down every lane as I pass, making every shot a hit.

When I reach the end, Lethe is waiting. He holds a drawn dagger in one hand, and gently grips my shoulder with his other hand. "You sure about this, girl?" he asks.

"Yes, sir," I say. "The wards won't let me die here, and this is the only way to prove how much I can heal. I can do this, sir."

"Oh, no question about that," Lethe says. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to turn coward on me." With that, he grips my shoulder more tightly, plunges the dagger into my back, and twists before pulling it free.

The pain is enormous, almost as bad as the time I tried to hold my power in until it overflowed. I'm no doctor—and I confess to barely passing biology—but if I had to guess, I'd say Lethe has just destroyed one of my kidneys and given me an injury that—anywhere else, would cause me to bleed out in a matter of minutes.

But I'm here to prove I can survive it—here, or anywhere else.

I raise my rifle again and fire, but this time a single shot. I feel the tingling in my back and gut, dueling with the pain. I stagger sideways, to the next lane, and fire again. There's more tingling. I sidestep again, this time more steadily, and fire. Now, the tingling seems to be winning out over the pain. I keep moving and firing, hitting each Rakshasa as I go, and healing myself with every shot. By the time I reach my starting point on the other side of the range, I feel no pain in my back at all. I reach back there and find my blouse torn and stained with blood, but my skin beneath the tear is unbroken and whole.

Sonnac applauds and comes down the stairs toward us. "Your methods are extreme, as always, Brigadier, but the result is something that cannot be denied."

"To be fair, sir, that bit about stabbing her at the end was entirely her idea," says Lethe.

Sonnac turns to me. "I'm impressed. You've not only learned to control your abilities, but you've also grown into quite the soldier. It's an honor to have you on our side." He holds out his hand. I wipe my hands clean on a damp towel Lethe offers before shaking Sonnac's hand.

"Thank you," I say. "It's an relief to have control, and to know that it'll be put to a good use someday."

Sonnac nods, but his smile vanishes. "That was the other thing I came here for. It seems that someday may be much closer than I'd expected. There's trouble on the New England coast, and we need to send an agent there right away." He motions. "Walk with me to my office. We can discuss all the details there."

I follow. "So, am I going to Boston?" I ask. I shudder to think about something like the Tokyo Incident happening in America.

"Not, Boston, no," says Sonnac. "Maine, in fact. Have you ever heard of a place called Solomon Island?

To Be Continued…


End file.
